Confessions of the Master
by amalcolm1
Summary: Watson looks back on his relationship with Holmes after Reichenbach, recanting what really happened and the truth about his dear friend. Will eventually contain HW slash.
1. Default Chapter

The Confessions of the Master  
As written by John H. Watson, M.D.  
(with consideration by Andrea Malcolm)  
  
To whom it may concern:  
As I write this in what will no doubt be the final chapter in my life, I do so to convey something that I cannot take to my grave. I have no idea if this text shall ever be read, and perhaps it would be just as better if it were not. But in any account, I must put into words the story that until now the public has not heard. It is not so much for my own sake as it is for the sake of the late Sherlock Holmes. He endured much in his life, the least of these immense public pressure to be-at times-something that he was not. I knew him better than any person. And so it is that I put my pen to paper in order to finally lay to rest a dear soul, and to show the truth of the man, and not just the master.  
  
Chapter One  
  
The year 1891, in retrospect, was one of the happiest, yet saddest years of my life. Never had I experienced such joy and such tragedy all in the space of a few months. And what is more, this year seemed to capitulate a dark cloud on not only myself and family, but indeed, London itself. But that shall all be explained in time. In order to fully understand the events that took place that faithful year and henceforth, it is necessary to understand the beginning of it all- that is, the day my life took an unexpected turn.  
  
It was late February as I recall, a brisk grey day when one desires nothing more than to stay at home in front of a roaring fire, sipping a hot beverage and perhaps reading a good book. But although I remember it well, I am sure that I took no notice of all that. It was right after dinner than I desired to close up my practice for the day and to pay an unannounced visit on my old lodgings at Baker Street, and most especially on my old friend- Mr. Sherlock Holmes.  
  
"Ah, Doctor," the landlady, Mrs. Hudson greeted me as she opened the door. "A welcome surprise."  
  
"Mrs. Hudson!" I cried with some emotion, as it was that not only was I so pleased to see her after many months, but also do in part to my news. "You are looking as lovely as ever!" I kissed her upon her forehead and shot upstairs without bothering to ask if my friend was at home.  
  
"Dr. Watson!" I heard her explain behind me, giggling like a schoolgirl.  
  
Throwing open the door to the sitting room, I immediately observed Holmes sitting in his customary wicker armchair by the fire, black clay pipe hanging from his angular jaw, grey eyes shiny and dilated, staring at something that only he could see. At first I thought that he must have just taken a shot of cocaine, but as I didn't see his syringe or any bottles laying about, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. It was, after all, quite a familiar look to see upon him drug-induced or not, and while usually I would leave him alone whilst in such a state, that day I did nothing of the kind.  
  
"Holmes!" said I, closing the door behind me. "I have to tell you something!"  
  
For several seconds, as was custom, he continued with whatever curious puzzle was wracking his great brain, but at last he returned to the present and his eyes flashed toward me. "Well, if it isn't my old colleague, the esteemed Doctor Watson. How are you, my dear fellow?"  
  
"I'm very well indeed." I could hardly keep from bursting out with my news. "And I have to..."  
  
"Pray have a seat," interrupted Holmes, indicating to my old armchair with his pipe.  
  
"Thank you. And now, I must tell you something..."  
  
"Ah, yes. Your first child is no doubt most exciting news, indeed. My hardy congratulations to both you and Mrs. Watson, my friend." He sprang from his chair like a hound upon his pray and wrung my hand heartedly.  
  
I have to admit, I was utterly struck speechless. Now, no doubt, dear reader, you are aware that Sherlock Holmes and I were quite intimate before the occasion of my marriage, and I was witness to his brilliance on many an occasion. I have seem him deduce the most exact details about a man's life from a homely felt hat[1] or a perfectly common bulbous-headed walking stick[2], or even many a person in this very room, but for the life of me, I could not see how he could have guessed this.  
  
A noise escaped from the back of my throat which was quite similar to that of a bullfrog, and I am sure that had I not already been sitting, I would have felt quite weak in the knees. "Indeed you must be more than human, Holmes. Psychic, or something."  
  
From him came a loud burst of a laugh. "Tut, tut, my dear fellow. I would have thought you, of all men, should not believe me to be anything of the sort. It is all quite simple, I assure you."  
  
"With you, Holmes, it is always inexorably quite simple. But this time you have gone too far. Somehow," I waved my finger at him for emphasis. "Somehow, this time, you have been tipped off. I don't know how, but there is no way you could have known about my wife being pregnant."  
"I assure you Watson, that nothing of the sort occurred. If you would be so kind as to help yourself to my humidor. I have some delightful Havanas that I'm sure you would enjoy. And then I shall explain."  
  
Curious as all-get out, I settled into the chair and lit my cigar. I couldn't possibly foresee how he would get this out, but I had to hear what he would say.  
  
Holmes, as was his habit to pressure one's nerve's to the very end, let a second pipe and took a few puffs. Finding it satisfactory, he spun to face me, whippish grin upon his face. "My dear doctor," said he. "I quite suspected your news from the very instant you appeared rapping at my chamber door[3]."  
  
"But how"- I began, but he held up his hand.  
  
"The time, Watson, the time."  
  
"Why it's- a quarter after one."  
  
"No, no, no. I knew from the time when you walked in. You see, Watson, it was exactly ten minutes after one when lest you arrived. I made sure to note that. Now, taking in the other factors, the fact that it is an eight minute carriage ride (barring excess traffic) from your office to Baker Street and of course that you always take your dinner from 12 to exactly 1o'clock-I concluded that your wife came to see you at your consulting room for your luncheon break. While there, she no doubt told you of her impending condition. And after you ate, you immediately sought me out to hear of your news-which, of course, I am honoured that you would think to rush here."  
  
"But...but..." I tried to connect it all in my mind, but I must admit, I could not.  
  
"But how did you know that my wife had been to see me at all? I don't see the connection."  
  
"You don't? Oh, come, come, Watson. You are a doctor after all. On the day that she would have become certain of this, do you think that she would wait for you to come home in the evening? And of course, you would have already been gone in the morning. No, no, she would come to see you at your office. Especially because this is your first. Excitement, I should think. But she, as I know, a lady of great class, she should not want to disturb you while you are with patients. Hence, your dinner time."  
  
"Okay," said I. "I'll grant you that it makes sense. You knew the first person I should wish to tell would be my very dear friend, and that I should come as soon as Mrs. Watson and I had our dinner. I'll even grant you that you could easily tell that the news I had was exciting from my demeanour. But I still can't see..."  
  
"Perfume," Holmes replied, nonchalantly.  
"Perfume...what?"  
  
"You smell of Mrs. Watson's perfume, my dear chap." His eyes lighted upon me, enjoying nothing more than to explain the answer to some cryptic mystery. "Perfume can only linger so long on a man's jacket, Watson, lest the smell of your cigar or cigarette smoke cover it up. I knew from the fact that I could smell it upon you that you must have been embraced by your dear wife some time very recently, sometime after you had smoked last. From there it was a simple deduction that you saw your wife at your luncheon time. And because you normally do not have dinner together, I knew it must be a special reason. And what other special reason does a wife seek out her husband at his business in the middle of the afternoon? She told you the wonderful news, you embraced her in a rapt of joy, no doubt talked about the event all through dinner, clutched her one final time, insuring her perfume upon your jacket, and hence, you hailed a cab to come just as fast as you could. And here you are."  
  
"Here I am indeed!" I said, laughing. "My dear Holmes, I must say, that even after all these years intimacy between us, you have not ceased to astound me. I could not see how you would have figured out such a thing."  
  
"Things without all remedy should be without regard[4], doctor. But indeed it was not such a puzzle as it may seem. And I shall admit, only to you, Watson, only to you, that while I was quite confident of my remedy, I was not..." he smiled rapidly, hardly noticeable at all, "completely sure."  
  
"Ha!" I exclaimed. "Holmes, you sly old devil!"  
  
He gave me quite a clap on the shoulder. "And now, Watson, we must have a bit of celebration. Mrs. Hudson!" He cried, quite ringing my ears. My old landlady appeared, reliable as ever, despite my friend's somewhat brutish manners. "We must have some of that most excellent champagne that you've been squirreling away, madam. There must be a glass to celebrate the good doctor's impending arrival."  
  
"Arrival?" Asked Mrs. Hudson. "What arrival?"  
  
"My wife and I are expecting a child, Mrs. Hudson." said I, quite uncontrollably puffed up with pride.  
  
She drew in a breath and clapped her hands together. "Are you really? Oh, that is wonderful news, Dr. Watson! Wonderful, indeed! I'm so happy for you!"  
  
"Thank you, my dear lady, thank you."  
  
"Mrs. Hudson..."Holmes broke in. "The champagne?"  
  
"Ohh..."she fussed with a frown. "At least you did well for yourself, doctor. You won't ever see a wife or children from this one here. I just don't know what it is about some men. They act so odd when the get within a yard of a lady. Can't even have a relationship."  
  
I had to try very hard right then not to explode with laughter. The very thought of Sherlock Holmes in a marriage with little Holmeses about him seemed absolutely absurd! Why that was I wasn't certain. Oh, I will admit part of it stemmed from the fact that on more than one occasion Holmes made such a comment as to his disdain for the female sex as a whole, but I never really put a thought to it. Until that very moment. When Holmes made the queerest comment I ever heard him utter, albeit under his breath.  
  
"And you never shall find me in such a relationship. Not with any  
woman."  
  
-I recall this memory to mind as the beginning of this tale as it was so very important in not only my life, but also that of Holmes. It was only months after this that Professor Moriarty made his sinister appearance and eventually capitulated to what I thought to be my friend's death at the Reichenbach Falls. And indeed I must admit that the memory of standing there at the devilish place, holding his words in my hand, not hardly realizing that his genius, his beauty should be gone forever was something that haunts me to this day. And worse that this occurred because no one could stop it. Not even his closest confidant and friend-myself. I shall not again retell the events that led up to my friend's demise as they are already accurately recorded. But I must convey what did occur in the winter of the year 1894[5], three and a half years after Sherlock Holmes death. And at a time in my life that I scarcely denoted the difference in death and life myself.-  
  
Chapter two  
  
Sherlock Holmes was forced to his death at the Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland in the beauty of late Spring. I shall never forget the horrid contrast of the place. The soft breeze, the pungent flowers, the Alps still dripping with ice and snow. All God's beauty seemed dropped from Heaven right on that exact spot, like some prevailing Eden. But the falls well...one barely could conjure up the necessary adjectives for that cold, demonic place. Indeed the mere sight of it filled me with the deepest dread and revulsion. Perhaps this was a premonition on my part. But call it what you would, it was at this place and time that catalyst was created, and nearly all that I cared about in this world was taken from me.  
  
You may recall, dear reader, that I recorded the events of Sherlock Holmes return in a story that was called "The Empty House." I regret that most of what I put into words there was false. It was necessary at that time for the public to believe that Holmes' return was, while remarkable, quite receptive on my part. At least, in my shame, that it is what I wished them to believe. That Holmes returned, explained everything, and together we rounded up the remainder of Moriarty's gang-the Colonel Sebastian Moran. The man responsible for the death of Ronald Adair and the attempted death of Sherlock Holmes. Indeed, many months later, it was in fact my friend who encouraged this account. Even now, many years later, I still find that I ashamed at how I behaved that faithful day, yet I feel compelled to, at last, tell just how it really happened.  
  
The fact remains that indeed I was some what enamoured by the death of young Ronald Adair. In my new position of acting police surgeon, I saw much death in those few years. I must admit that this was not a position I was particularly happy in, but do to my growing family, I found it necessary. My first child was born in October of 1891, some five months after Sherlock Holmes' death. And now, as it was September of 1894, my darling wife, Mary was expecting our second child. Therefore, I accepted the position and performed it to the best of my ability, always in the mindset of it being necessary to all that I had. A beautiful and loving wife, a darling son and soon, a second blessing. Sadly, as when most mortals start to feel they are on top of the world, it is inevitable that it come crashing back down.  
  
To this day, I still dream of that night. Some of what happened has faded from memory, thankfully, but most of it is still as fresh as a wet painting. I was just finishing up at my consulting room some time in the evening of September the 30th, when a telegram boy come in,  
  
"For you, sir," he said, handing me an envelope. There was a look upon his dirty, sun-painted face, that suggested to me he knew the contents were not going to be pleasant.  
  
I handed him a tip, and immediately recognized the handwriting as that of out house maid, Ivy:  
  
-Dear sir,- it read  
  
-I would ask that you come home immediately. The lady of the house has gone into her condition, and is not well. Please hurry.-  
  
"Oh, God," I said. I remember very distinctly the feeling of my heart beating against my rib cage. But there was no time to linger. Not even for pain. As my assistant was already gone for the day, I ran out without even bothering to bolt the door. It was the only time I would ever do such a thing.  
  
Although I immediately came upon a hansom and commissioned it to my home address, I think now that I could have gotten there quicker upon my own steam. Every echo of the horse's hooves pounding against the cobblestone pounded against my own chest. I was gripping the message so tightly in my hand that later as I threw it into the fire, I noticed the distinctive imprint of finger marks.  
The cabbie did make rather good time. The promise of half a guinea was sufficient in securing that. But still, I sat muttering under my breath the entire time. "Hurry....hurry...God, Mary, hang on. You must hang on."  
  
A fellow doctor by the name of Joseph Blakely, who had a thriving practice on Harley Street was there when I arrived. I recognized his carriage as it was one of the most fashionable in all of London. The sight of it relieved me momentarily, for if there was any other doctor I wanted to attend to Mary, than Blakely was the man. His skill was quite exceptional.  
  
I threw open the door quite ignoring Ivy altogether, not even bothering to remove my coat. I hadn't even bothered to take my hat, gloves or stick with me. "Sir, sir, you shouldn't go in there," I heard her call, but propriety was the furthest thing from my mind.  
  
Just as I skidded to a halt in front of our bedroom, Blakely emerged. He was a man in his fifties, thick silver sideburns and a full head of silver hair. His eyes had constantly a glimmer of the deepest intelligence, but also friendliness in the light amber-brown. He dressed immaculately, quite natty in his appearance, and indeed there was only one man I ever knew who cared more about his appearance. But I knew, I knew from the instant that the door was opened and my eyes fell upon him, that the news was not what I was praying for.  
  
"Blakely," said I. "How is she?"  
"Watson, I think that you had better sit." He indicated toward my private study just left of our chamber.  
  
"Damnit, man, I don't want to sit! Tell me what is happening!"  
  
He didn't have to say it with words. They way he reached out to lay his hand on my arm said it all. "Have it your way, then. Your child is dead, I am afraid. Stillborn."  
  
I closed my eyes momentarily. I could hardly stand to see him in front of me, pity in his usually jovial expression. "And..." I whispered, knowing there was more.  
  
"And," he said. "I fear that the strain is too much for Mary. I shouldn't think she'll live through the night."  
  
I must have staggered backward because the next thing I knew Blakely was gripping me under the arms, apparently thinking I was on the point of fainting. "Sit, please my friend, you must sit down. Maid!"- he called downstairs. "Brandy at once!"  
  
"No, no," said I. "I need no such thing. Blakely, why did someone, you, the midwife, anyone not call for me sooner?"  
"It just happened so rapidly, I am afraid." He said. "The midwife was called some time just after dinner. According to her, all was well until just over an hour ago when I arrived. Your wife had begun to haemorrhage, and the baby had still not arrived."  
  
"Why didn't you send for me ?" I shouted. I felt quite as I had never had before. I had thought that Dr. Joseph Blakely was a friend, a friend who would not let my wife and baby die without my at least being present. "I am a doctor, for God's sake!"  
  
"John," he said, gripping my arm gently. "There was nothing you could have done that I could not. In fact, it was better that you were not here. Do you think you could have acted rationally to save Mary and the baby? Tell me that your mind would have been clear. You know you cannot!"  
  
Indeed I did know that Blakely was right. My mind was not even working clearly now, after the fact. All I could think on was that my baby was dead, and soon my Mary would be as well. Three people were now dead, three people that I might have saved but could not. Or had not.  
  
"May I see Mary?" It was not a question. It was an order.  
  
He was reluctant at first, but knew there was no point in denying me. He gave a brief nod of his large silver head, and held the door open. "She is very weak," he said in a soft voice. "You must be gentle. And I should think not say anything about...the inevitable."  
  
"As if I would."  
  
Pushing past Blakely, I silently walked into our room. It was unfathomable to think that this very room had brought me so much happiness-the love of my wife, of course, but also the birth of my son, the intimate holdings of all I kept secret, and now it was much like the falls of Reichenbach-I saw in it nothing but death and pain.  
  
The midwife, a woman I did not recognize was sitting on a velvet armchair in the far, slightly darkened corner of my chamber. She was wrapping something in a white cotton blanket that resembled a miniature mummy. I was afraid that I knew what it was. My eyes shut instinctively for a second or two, my mind flooded with images I wished only to purge. Yet still, I could not put my child into the ground without ever even having looked upon it.  
  
"No," I said. "I'll take...'" I realized then that I didn't even know if it was a boy or a girl. "I'll take the child."  
  
The woman handed me the pitiful small bundle, and then left the room. I was very glad she did, for I felt then I might not be able to hold back my grief. The child was female, and so astoundingly small. I sat where the midwife had, just holding her in one arm, not wanting to look at her, but not being able to turn away. She was about the length of the tip of my finger to my wrist only, perhaps 20 centimetres and covered in a nearly translucent powdery skin that allowed me to see every blue and green jagged vein. Her eyes were closed, of course, but she had the most delicate eyelashes, long and feathery. There was even hair, a surprising lot of it, thick tendrils of blond curls that reminded me of her mother. Evers so gently, I ran my forefinger across her brow. It was like velvet. Although cold and hard velvet.  
  
"Isn't she beautiful, John?"  
  
I looked up to see Mary awake, or at least partly. Her eyes were open, two opaque holes of blue, but one needn't be a medical man to see that she was very gravely ill. "Mary," I said, moving swiftly to the bed. "Mary, how are you, my darling?"  
  
"I shouldn't think that we'll go dancing any time soon."  
  
I smiled. I loved her gentle sense of humour even in the most sombre of times. Still holding the baby in one hand, I reached out with my other to hold her. "You are so brave, darling, so brave. I should have...I should have been..."  
  
"Oh, John, it only matters that you are here now. And that you got to see your daughter at least once. I'm only sorry that you'll never get to see the beautiful woman that she would have become."  
  
I distinctly remember her using the word 'you'll' rather than 'we'll'. I wanted to correct her, reprimand her, even shout at her for daring to suggest that she wouldn't be here. But how could I after all?  
  
"Vera," Mary whispered.  
  
"What?"  
  
Her lips formed the slightest of smiles. "Vera. That is what I would have called her. Isn't that a lovely name?"  
  
Somehow, I managed a nod. "It is...it is indeed." Good Lord, I couldn't break down now. Not in front of my wife. Not like this. I turned away from her briefly, hardly being able to take the dark shadows under her beautiful eyes, the pallor of her face, the limp dampness of her hand against mine.  
  
She spoke only once more, just a few moments after this, squeezing my hand with a last concentrated effort of strength. "John," she whispered. "Promise me."  
  
"Anything, Mary."  
  
"You must promise. Josh. You must promise to always be there."  
This was the first time I had thought of my son since getting that damned telegram. He would be three in only a week, but was imminently wiser than his years. And empathetic. It seemed he could sense at times what I and his mother were feeling, and we were close as a family. The thought of having to tell him that his mother was gone was something I could not even contemplate. "I will take care of him, my darling. Don't you concern yourself."  
  
"Don't...don't send him away. He needs you...." Her voice was fading now. "He needs you."  
  
"I shan't send him away. Never. We'll always be together, darling." I was blubbering now, but I would have said anything, promised anything she wanted. It was the last time she would ever speak to me.  
  
She fell into a comatose sleep then, and I couldn't bare to stay in the room one minute longer. I wrapped up my daughter in the cotton blanket and placed her in Mary's arms. I think I could almost see the stillness and peace in the air, but I refused. My heart pumped with fury, yet I didn't no how to release it. After a shaking breath, I bent over and kissed her on her brow. "Goodnight, dear heart," I whispered.  
  
Blakely was still outside when I left the room. I was grateful because I knew that a doctor needed to be there in the end, to pronounce, but that I couldn't bare it to be myself. His eyes flashed the question he was trying to figure the proper words for. I saved him the trouble.  
  
"You will stay, won't you, Blakely?"  
  
"Indeed. If you wish it."  
  
"I'll be in my study, then."  
  
"John"- he continued, grasping my arm. But he didn't say anything else.  
  
"Thank you, Joseph."  
  
I met our housemaid downstairs, her eyes red and swollen and nose dripping. I shouldn't think that she was contributing her full attentions to her household duties, but I really didn't care. In fact, a certain amount of me took some perverse pleasure in seeing this amount of loyalty. I hadn't really thought Ivy and Mary were that close. I suspected a certain amount of the grief must have been due to her fear of losing her place. She had no way o f knowing what I was planning now that I was to be a widower. Neither did I, for that matter.  
  
"Oh, sir," she said, dabbing her eyes with her apron. "I'm...so sorry. So sorry."  
  
I patted her hand comfortingly. "There, there, my girl. We mustn't have that."  
"Yes sir," she attempted to stop, but her lip was still quivering.  
  
"Now you must listen to me carefully," I said. "Serve master Josh his dinner in the nursery as always. But you mustn't tell him anything that is going on."  
  
"Oh, no sir! I would never!"  
  
"Good. Keep him there until bedtime. If he asks were his mother and I are, you must tell him that we have gone out."  
  
"But"- she started, so I squeezed her arm to emphasize the importance.  
  
"No buts, girl! You must keep him in the nursery. Now go!"  
  
Her eyes widened then, and she didn't say anything. Just gave a brief curtsy and hurried off toward the nursery. I couldn't blame the shock on her face. I have never handled her, nor anyone beneath me roughly before. Despite my service in the army, and even during the war, I never relished having to use violence against anyone. It is quite against my nature. But I was acting then, not on my upbringing nor judgment, but on adrenaline.  
  
My study was really more like a family room for the use of Mary and Josh as much as myself. I kept my business papers and books there, a desk and writing supplies, and all original copies of my manuscripts for The Strand. All the adventures of my dear friend Sherlock Holmes, the ones the public read and some they didn't. But now there would be no more.  
  
The only time I was disturbed that night was by Blakely, some time just after nine-somewhere between my third and fourth glasses of whiskey. Mary was at peace. Those were his words. I was not quite drunk yet, but on the verge, and I should think that he was very glad that I didn't ask him to stay. Let me just say now, dear reader, that I am far from a drunk, and indeed that night was the first time I had more than just an after dinner brandy or whiskery in more than ten years. The alcohol did something to me that night, something besides dull the ache in my chest. It transformed me into another time and place. I stood by the fireplace, gazing into the heat of orange and yellow, feeling the swirling warmth over all the places in me the whiskey didn't touch, listening to the cracks and pops of the wood splintering. And I began to relive all the people I had lost over the years.  
  
On the mantel above the fireplace sat several pictures of my family and Mary's. Two were very old, taken when we children. The first was of my darling Mary's when she was hardly more than four or five, just before her Mother died. Her father Captain Morstan had on the uniform of a senior ranking Indian officer of the 70's, and stood proudly next to a young woman with flaxen hair and a delicate smile. Holding a gloved hand was a small girl, my own wife, who shared with her mother both appearance and demeanour. I smiled at the young girl, who looked ever so much the same today, only more beautiful.  
  
The other dated cabaret was that of my relations. It was taken when I was ten years of age, with my immediate family. My parents sat stone-faced for the photographer, and I could remember that day it was taken. I thought that I must stand there forever trying desperately not to move, not to scratch at my high collar or to flinch from the heat of the photographers studio. My elder brother Henry, eight years my senior, stood to my left and looked every bit the man he tried to become. I cannot say he succeeded. He past on just five years ago of an unknown cause. He found solace for life's woes in the bottle, I am sorry to say. My parents, too, were deceased. My father passing when I was fourteen of a chest cancer, and my mother my second year at University, a long sufferer of consumption. Now, only my sister Abigail, five years younger and I survived. She was unmarried, living in the family home in Kent, and we were not close. It was as if I was an orphan to the world. Ironic, even. From the time I was quite a child, I had dreamed of practicing medicine. I think the inclination began some time around the age of seven, when a cousin just one year older died of German measles. He and I had been companions and his loss created a longing to help people. And while I certainly had, it seemed I was destined not to come to the aid of those I cared most for. Not my parents, my brother, my friend, nor even my wife and child.  
  
There were three other photographs. One of Josh, taken just three months previously, another of he and his parents, and the final of our wedding party. It was that one that I studied. I had not looked upon it in some time, and took little pleasure in the expressions of wedded bliss worn upon the faces of Mary and myself. She was inexpressibly lovely that day, and if I do say so myself, we made a handsome couple. Her closest friend Anne Spencer had acted as matron of honour, and of course, I had asked Sherlock Holmes to stand up for me. I was slightly hurt when at first he had reservations, but I took that only to be his own proclivities against marriage. In the end, he had acceded to the reality of it, and permitted me to be the frontman for once. Although I remember him congratulating me once it was done, he had done so out of respect and comradeship, rather than genuine gladness for me. And then 15 months later, he too was gone.  
  
I slammed the frame stupidly back onto the ledge, watching as the grass shattered, showering my hand with razor sharp bits of agony. How could I remember such things? Why would I even want to? Truly, I was a deplorable human being.  
  
The rest of that most catastrophic night of my life was without incident. A blur of burning amber liquid and yellowing hallucinations of the bygone days. Eventually I collapsed upon the settee in a horrid nightmarish rest of mostly alcohol induction. I never moved, and I dare say that in those hours I cared little if I myself should have lived or died.  
  
I should not trouble you further with the details of those next days of my life in which I saw to it that my wife was memorialised at St. Paul's in a most blessed and praiseworthy wake surrounding by mostly friends of ours and patients of mine. I then stood in a blustery autumn day of muted colours and mindset, watching as the single casket was lowered into the ground. The sentiment on the tombstone was one of utter love, love for beloved wife, mother and infant daughter. And then all was done.  
  
There is only one further point I should like to recall before I turn my attentions to that of the astonishing reappearance of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. As it will come into narrative later, I should like to introduce my son at this point. Indeed, Josh plays a vital role in this memoir, something that the casual reader of The Strand never knew. As any father would, bragging is a common occurrence in regards of one's offspring, but do not confuse it with the truth when I tell you that my child was a remarkable boy indeed. Perhaps this explains why Holmes, who never showed even the vaguest of paternal instincts toward any child, took such an interest in him. But all that shall come later. For now, I remember him as a lad not even three years old, the only bright spot in a life that was so suddenly catapulted into blackness.  
  
It was the next afternoon, when at last the dull pain in my head had ceased that I sought out my child to explain, as best I could, the loss he was not even aware existed.  
  
Josh was a small child, having been born nearly one month prematurely. Short of leg and arm, with a large head, he was rather disproportioned. But a gorgeous child none the less. His hair was blond, like his mother, with the slightest hint of red colouring, thick and wavy, it lay on his head like the supple fleece of a lamb, curling around his brow and ears. His eyes were the most incredible shade of blue, like two sapphires glimmering in a pool of water. His cheeks were as rosy as a young girls, and when he smiled, it was as if the world should never frown again. To look upon him one could not be help be reminded of the angels depicted in stained glass on many a church.  
  
He was in the nursery that grey day sprawled upon the floor with a children's picture book. It is not boasting to sat that at just shy of three, he could already read several words and even scrawl a few among these his own full name. My own intellect may not be dissimilar from that of most of my own class of men, but I can say without convection that Josh's ravenous appetite for knowledge was do almost completely to myself. I read to him every night, taught him the alphabet and the digits one through ten almost before he could speak and be recognized. By the time he was two, his diction was far cleaner and clearer than all of those his age I ever saw, and there was no end to his questions. At times, I could hardly answer them to his satisfaction. I should not have been shocked if he asked the meaning of life before he was mature to even be breeched*. But while one immediately thinks that such children who are superior in their minds, are inevitably inferior in some other respect, most likely their hearts, this was not the case with my son. I must admit falling prey to that supposition about Holmes when first we met. He was the most loving, caring, sympathetic child one was ever likely to meet. And so it was that I knew he was the only soul on this Earth that would realize what had been lost.  
"Hello, papa," said he as I entered his room. To see me in the nursery was not surprising to him, for unlike many men, I revelled in whatever time I could spend with my child.  
  
"What are you reading?" I asked, sitting next down next to him.  
  
"Mother Goose. I can read all these words. He pointed a chubby finger at the cover of the colourful story, and read it aloud. "I can write it also, papa." His small child-size chalk board that I purchased for him some months ago had the words scribbled across, just legible enough for my trained doctor's eye to recognize.  
  
"You are a clever boy, aren't you? That's very good indeed."  
  
"Yes," he said, with all the modesty of a child his age. "I suppose I am."  
  
"And now I must talk to you, Josh. Please lay down the book for a moment."  
  
I think that despite his young age, he knew that what I had to tell him would not be a pleasant thing. I could read it in his eyes, as fear shines brightest of all. But he climbed into my lap without protest, and I was left to have to explain something I hardly was able to put into words.  
  
"Joshie," I said. "Something happened yesterday. Your mother was given a baby sister for you."  
  
"Where is she?"  
  
"Let me speak. Don't interrupt. Now, I am afraid that the little baby was not big enough to survive. So she had to go to Heaven to live."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because that's were babies go when they aren't big enough to live here."  
  
"You mean here in London, papa?"  
  
"Um...yes. Here in London. Or anywhere. India, America, France. All of these types of babies must go to Heaven to live with God if that can't survive. And that's what happened to your baby sister."  
  
"That's too bad," he said seriously. "I should have liked to have a baby sister."  
  
I smiled into the soft blond curls, hoping he could read the sadness that it reflected. "But there is more. You see, a baby cannot go to Heaven all by itself. It's too small and too young to take care of itself when it's there. So your Mother had to go as well, to take care of her."  
He paused, running this through his head, trying to make the connection. "You mean Mummy's in Heaven, also?"  
  
"Yes. She is."  
  
"For how long?"  
  
"Forever. When someone goes to Heaven, they cannot come back again. It's forever."  
  
"You mean she's not my Mummy anymore?"  
  
"Oh no, son. She shall always be your Mummy. But she shan't be here anymore. She must stay in Heaver with the baby. And I must stay here, to care for you."  
  
"But why can't we go to Heaven to live with Mummy and the baby also?"  
  
"Because..." I had not an idea as to the answer for this. To explain the great mysteries of the afterlife and God and Heaven was more than any man was capable of understanding at times. I was expected to put this into terms that a three year old could comprehend. "Because we simply can't. Only Mummy and baby Vera could go to Heaven. You and I must stay here. I must care for my patients and you must grow up. You will see her again someday, Josh. But just not now. Not for a long time, I'm afraid.  
  
He began to cry then, when at last he must have realized all that I was saying. "But I don't want to stay here without Mummy! I want to go to Heaven with her!" He buried his face into my waist coat and created two large wet-spots while I could only sit there and pat his soft head. That was the second worst of as many days.  
Chapter three  
  
And so now you now the details that I reduced to a single line in my published writings, and how, I think understandably, I was not the man I usually am, not even two weeks later, when I chanced at last to return to my practice. I must say that my assistant, Parks, was quite a remarkable fellow, and I should never be able to appreciate in words those feelings of gratitude I so owed him, for handling everything during this time. He was a magnificent lad who I think I never appreciated fully.  
  
I became interested in the Ronald Adair murder, I think, partly because of the curious circumstances that had so been aroused in me by my acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes. One cannot help but be attracted to all that is strange and grotesque when around my friend, and I was no exception. But I think that also, a preoccupation of this case on my mind was a way of relieving it of so much pain. Distraction is the method for dealing with grief.  
  
It was on my way back from the enquiry into his death that by chance I collided with an old bookseller. I was quite absent-minded at the time, regurgitating the facts of the case in my mind, trying so desperately for the gifts that possessed my deceased friend. I was well aware of his method, but the use of them in any practical sense just seemed to be beyond me. No doubt all that have read my narrative entitled "The Empty House" are aware of my complete oblivion as to the true identity of this elderly gentleman, and I quite forgot him as soon as I was in my cab.  
  
As the workday was nearly out, I returned quickly to my consultation room, chatted briefly with Parks about the case, and together we closed and bid each other a good night. I had hardly been home and in my study but a few minutes when Ivy announced a visitor. It was the same old chap, the bookseller, wanting to apologize for his gruffness of earlier. I had just told him that he needn't have bothered over such a trifle, when I looked up again to see none other than Sherlock Holmes standing in front of me.  
  
You are no doubt aware that this shock, coupled by the already shattered state of my nerves, caused me to faint for the only time in my life. But what I didn't say previously is that despite my intelligence and better judgment, I thought I was in the presence of a spirit.  
  
I awoke with brandy tingling on my breath and collar ends undone. "My dear Watson," Holmes was saying. "A thousand apologies. I had no idea you would be so affected."  
  
"Holmes, is that really you?" I gripped him about his thin arms, expected to go right through him, but indeed I did not. "How can it be that you are alive?"  
  
"Wait a moment. I am not sure I should be discussing such things with you right now. I have given you quite a shock by my unnecessarily dramatic reappearance."  
  
It was then that I insisted I was fine, and that he must tell me how he came to be standing in my study, when I thought he was lying at the bottom of Reichenbach Falls. You already know all of this. But while in my narrative of the great Sherlock Holmes return, I was nothing but the picture of jovial excitement and amazement. I regret to say that in reality I could not have been more dissimilar to that.  
  
He was smoking a cigarette and leaning against my deskchair, as casually as if we were back in Baker Street, discussing a case. "And that was how I came to be alive when all, save my brother Mycroft, thought me dead."  
  
I began to feel my pulse quicken then, staring at his calm demeanour. "How could you not have told me?" I asked.  
  
"I do apologize, Watson, but you see, I could not. I needed you to convince the public that my untimely demise did really occur. Who better to conceive such a heart-felt and convincing sentiment than my own friend and biographer? No, no, dear doctor, there really was no way I could let you in on it."  
"How dare you!" I screamed. Never, ever had I felt such a loath for someone I generally regarded with nothing but the highest measure of love and respect. "How could you do such a thing? Did you not realize how hurt I was at your death? That I was partly responsible because I could not save you? How could you be so cruel!"  
  
He was on his feet now, looking both bewildered and saddened. "Watson, my dear chap, I am sorry. Truly, I am. But you must see that there was no way I could tell you! My very life depended on no one knowing I was alive."  
  
I should think then that I took every ounce of restraint in my body to not strike him. I had lost so much, so much, and blamed myself so deeply for his death, and he had not the decency to relieve me of that guilt. "Yet you trusted your brother. You thought he could be trusted and I could not? I realize that I do not have the...callousness that appears to run in your family, but surely I am not such a complete imbecile that I could not be trusted with this." Even to me my voice sounded horribly sarcastic and bitter.  
  
"Doctor, this is unworthy of you. I realize that you are quite affected by the tragedy that I have recently become cognizant of, and you have my sincerest sympathies, but you must see..."  
  
"Sympathies!" I exclaimed. "I have your sympathies! What do you know of sympathy? To your cold, unfeeling mind, that is just a word, a definition to which you truly know nothing about! I never imaged that you would be capable of this...inhuman hoax, but now..." I paused. "Now I see that you are."  
  
"Watson..." he could only shake his head. For once in his life, he was struck speechless. Never had he imagined that I would treat him like this. To see him standing in front of me as a disobedient child receiving a tongue-lashing almost swelled the sympathy in my own heart, forcing me to see that I was not acting rationally. But the hurt and betrayal that fuelled my ardour won out in the end.  
  
"I am afraid, sir," I said in an icy voice. "That I must ask you to leave my house."  
  
"But..."  
  
"Now, if you don't mind."  
  
His jaw closed and those brilliant grey eyes blinked a few times with shock. But as silently as midnight, he gathered his remains of the bookseller costume, and walked out of my house, as civilized as ever. I should have thought than, that I may never have seen him again. And had that been the case, I would have deserved it whole-heartedly.  
  
For a week after my confrontation with Holmes, I thought about going to Baker Street. I wanted desperately to see him, if only to prove that I had not imagined the entire encounter. My anger had subsided within an hour of his leaving, and when I thought of it with a rational mind, I realized that what I had said was not only not true, but ghastly and unworthy. But whenever I would start to give the familiar address to a cabbie, my tongue gave out and I could not do it. I feared he would never have me again after this. But I should have known the man better, and I week later, I found I did.  
  
"Sir, there's a gentleman here to see you," Ivy said late on evening.  
  
It was at these times of night that I found I missed Mary most of all. Just simply her company as I worked at my desk, and the comforting sound of her needle as she sewed. There was not even anyone to ask me how my day had gone. I immediately turned away from her, hoping with all my heart that she hadn't seen the tears on my face. "Please ask whoever it is to leave, Ivy. I'm not in the mindset to entertain anyone just now."  
  
"Well...he's rather insistent, sir."  
  
"I don't care if he is or isn't!" I shouted. "Please ask him to leave!"  
  
"Watson," I heard a familiar voice say.  
  
I looked up to see Sherlock Holmes standing in my entryway, dressed for the first time as I remembered him, as himself and not an old bookseller. His top hat was still on his head, suit all in black, as was typical of the fastidious man, expensive mahogany and silver walking stick in one hand. It was almost as if no time had passed at all since last I laid eyes on him (normally, that is) as if these last three plus years had all been just a memory. Part of me was filled with consternation at the very sight of him, knowing how I had treated him just a week ago. But overall, having him here in my very house, realizing that if he was, it surely meant he did not abhor me, I felt ever so much gratitude and relief.  
  
"Despite my unwanted insistence, doctor, would you throw even your oldest friend out of your house and into the street?" His face held the slightest hint of sarcasm, but knowing him as I did, I recognized this as only part of his queer sense of humour.  
  
In a rapid movement I wiped my eyes, hoping not to appear as to do so. "No, no, of course not," I said clearing my throat. "Come in, Holmes. Thank you Ivy."  
  
He brushed past my maid, closing the door hardly before she had time to leave, and without divesting himself of his hat, gloves or overcoat. Yet instead of speaking, he paced about the room, rubbing his hands in a methodical fashion, one sure sign of his nervousness. Indeed, he was much like a restless spirit when he chanced upon matters that involved him to show something of his heart, rather than his brain. And I knew enough to know that was the very reason he was here.  
  
I rose from my seat, trying with a supreme effort to give the impression of being composed, and motioned to my spirit case which remained unlocked do to my own taking of several helpings of brandy. "Would you like a drink?" I asked him.  
  
But Holmes rarely took alcohol except when he was in calm or more jovial mood. Unlike many men, he did not rely on it to steady his nerves. He had other vices for that. "No, I won't, thank you. Surely you don't object to my smoking a cigarette however?"  
  
"Of course not."  
  
I think that forced small-talk between us was preying on both of us at that instant. Indeed, as he sent thick plumes of blue-grey smoke into my sitting room, I found myself staring at him, and he me, in a wordless tête- à-tête of some uncomfortableness. It was probably the only time that recalls to my mind when neither he nor I could think of one thing to say to the other. But I propose that the only reason for this was because neither of us wanted to say what we knew we should. At last, in my affectionate regard, and I dare say embarrassment at my behaviour, I acquiesced first.  
  
"Holmes," I said. "I really must apologize for the last week. I...behaved badly."  
  
"No, no," he waved his hand creating circles of smoke round him. "It is I who must apologize. I treated you deplorably. To think that I should expect you to welcome me with open arms after I played a most ghastly prank on you for these last years. I should never have allowed you to believe I was dead."  
  
His sincerity, though, only plagued my heart with further guilt. For I knew that while he may have erred in his judgment of me, it was horrendously selfish on my part to have expected him to risk his very life to ease my conscious. "Holmes, you owe me nothing. Not apologises, nor even words. My behaviour last week was..." I could barely think of an appropriate word. "Hideous. All I can offer in way of an explanation is that I have not been myself of late. But I don't mean to use that as an excuse."  
  
I saw something then that I dare say amounted to compassion. His steel grey eyes softened to something close to human, and his whole demeanour slackened. He took a final drag on his cigarette and pitched it into the fire. "My dear Watson," he said in a queer soft voice. A voice I had never heard before. "Your behaviour may have been inexcusable to you. But not to me. You have experienced so much tragedy in such a short period of time. I dare say my love of all that is dramatic only capitulated your grief. Had I thought...." He paused, no doubt trying to consider his words. Overt statements of sentimentality were not among my friend's strong points. "I should think I might have behaved very much the same had our places been reversed."  
  
It may have been something in this statement of his, something very much I needed to hear, or it could have been something else altogether, something akin to the shattered state of my nerves and heart right at that moment, but whichever, I did something then that I had never done in the presence of another man before; I began to cry.  
I should think that Holmes was somewhat shocked to see me do so, but he betrayed very little. Just a slight jutting of the eyebrows, and slackening of the jaw. It is hard for me to say exactly what just did occur right then, as I was preoccupied with blubbering apologies at him, and of course, being utterly embarrassed beyond belief. But somehow he was right there next to me, how, I don't know. In front of the fireplace one moment, and standing in front of me the next.  
  
"I don't...I don't know what's come over me," I said, turning away from him. I couldn't bare to look at his face.  
  
I felt his long, nimble fingers curl around my shoulder. My body became as rigid as ice, for the last thing I wanted then was his pity, nor even his hand on me. To behave as I was, was inexcusable for that of an English gentleman.  
  
"Watson," I heard my friend say, quite gently and very un-Holmes like. "Turn 'round."  
  
"Please just leave."  
  
His hand tightened, revealing what I already knew of his stubbornness. He would not leave until it suited him, and it would not suit him until he'd had his say. I briefly was filled with a hot anger that even in my own house, he still had the upper hand on me, but then he spoke again. "Please, doctor, turn 'round."  
  
And I did. Because I couldn't refuse him, not then, and not now. He stared down at me with all the tenderness that a man such as he is capable of, stared despite my humiliation, and then did something absolutely shocking. The hand that rested on my shoulder pulled me toward him while the other he placed on the back of my head. Indeed, out of all the things I expected him to do right then, hugging me was not one of them. I was too shocked to do anything but just stand there, my cheek pressed against his chest, breathing in the familiar smell of pipe tobacco which permeated his jacket, wondering what on earth had come over him. "My dear Watson," he said at last. "You know I should not think any less of you for it. If ever a man had the right to break down."  
  
It lasted only for a few seconds and then he released me, transformed once again in the steel trap that everyone so often associates with the man. He had pulled out another cigarette, and was standing there with that odd smile about him as if nothing had happened in the least. "Thank...thank you, Holmes. For understanding."  
  
But he merely shrugged it off. "It was nothing," he said. "And now," he paused to rub his hands together. "Now, we have plans to make."  
  
"Plans? What sort of plans...hold on, Good God, man, you've been injured." It had been his hands, now clear in front of me, that I had noticed that he had the ring finger of his left hand in a self-made sling. Judging from the swelling of it, I could tell that it was quite broken. It looked as if someone had tried to wring it from the socket. Instinctively, with the trained doctor's eye, I sized up the rest of him. Right away, I was drawn to a bandage just visible on the top of his collar. The bandage was not exactly even, clearly he had done the work himself, and I could tell from what I could see of the wound that he had been scratched. By a human being, no less, judging from the width. "Have you had a fight with someone?" I asked.  
  
He smiled. "It was nothing. A calling card from a friend, is all."  
  
"A friend? If that is what a friend does, I would hate to see what an enemy..." I paused then, feeling my face grow quite warm as I realized what I was saying. I had a sudden picture of Reichenbach falls barrelling down on top of not one body, but two. They turned to bones in front of very eyes, a hundred years of waste and neglect. Quickly , I cleared my throat, and returned my attention to his injuries. "I could dress that a little better for you."  
  
"No, no, don't concern yourself with it. A trifle, nothing more. A souvenir from a shakari gentleman. I was pleased to rid London of the colonel's presence."  
  
I was about to ask who was speaking about, and no doubt Holmes realized it for he changed the subject. "And now about those plans."  
  
"Plans...oh, yes. To what were you speaking about?"  
  
"For you my dear fellow. You and your son."  
  
"Me and my....wait a moment, how did you know that I had a son? Did your brother tell you?"  
  
"Ha! Mycroft concern himself with a domestic matter outside of his own affairs? I should think not. No, no, indeed, he never told me a word. It was a simple deduction."  
  
I quickly scanned the room, trying to figure out just what this simple deduction could be, but indeed I could not. "I so no such deduction." My eyes flashed toward the fireplace, and it was then that I remembered Josh's picture, sitting right in front. "You undoubtedly saw his picture."  
  
"Indeed."  
  
"But surely that' wasn't enough."[6]  
  
"Not exactly, no." He smiled, and gestured toward the floor near my desk. "You have been out of practice with regards to my methods. I should have thought this one quite elementary."  
  
I looked down just beneath my feet and saw a single wooden toy soldier, about 12 centimetres in length with a beautifully painted red jacket and quite a detailed uniform and face. It was part of a set that I had purchased for the boy just a week ago on his birthday. I picked it up in my hand and set it on my desk, shaking my head.  
  
"Aha, you see, doctor! So unless you are permitting your daughter to play war games with toy soldiers, I should think that the cabaret on the hearth is that of a young male Watson, junior."  
  
"Apparently you have had not let your exceptional skills grow rusty over these last years."  
  
He flashed me the whip-fast grin, and strolled over to the fireplace where he placed the picture of my son in his hand, studying it as he often did invisible specimens under his microscope. "He is...just short of three years, is he not?"  
  
"Just turned rather," I said, one of the very few times I was ever allowed the opportunity to correct him. "His birthday was the fifth of October."  
  
"Ah, then he was born prematurely."  
  
"Yes...nearly a month as best we can estimate. But how did you know that?"  
  
"A simple calculation as I remember the exact date that you ran into the sitting room in a fit of enthusiasm over the news of your impending paternity." His attention returned to the photograph. "Your son is quite intelligent, I dare say, already to the point of script being within his grasp. He is an impatient child, unusually so for his age, but not necessarily in a bad way. I also perceive that he is quite an active child. Clumsy on his feet still. Ah, and an animal lover. That's good, yes. Very good."  
  
I heard myself laughing, laughing as he stood there, diagnosing my son from one cabaret that was taking three months ago. "Oh, Holmes. I know that I shouldn't be surprised. I am sure that you will not be surprised to hear that you are right, on every point. But I really must be blind because were he not my son, I should not see how you could know any of that."  
  
"Now, now Watson. You will see it. Take the photograph. There's a good chap. Now." He placed his clasped hands in front of his face, and stared at me with feeling. "Don't just look at it. See it."  
  
I tried, staring at the photo with penetrating eyes, trying to see with the eyes of a practiced observer rather than a father. "Well, I gather you figure he is intelligent because I will admit he has a rather large head."  
  
"And his eyes, Watson. His eyes glimmer with mental activity. Yes, yes go on."  
  
"I recall that you once told me it can be determined whether a person is right or left handed by the development of their muscles in the hand. And I guess you could see in the picture that his right hand is quite slim and muscular from repeated script practice."  
  
"Very good doctor!"  
  
"As for being an animal lover, he is most definitely, and you can tell his left hand that he is clutching Blackie , er...his stuffed dog."  
  
"Yes, yes...Watson...it is coming back to you. Prey continue."  
  
I shook my head. "I'm afraid that is all I can tell."  
  
"Tut...tut...well, I suppose that not doing anything for"-  
  
"Excuse me, not doing anything?"  
  
He waved me away. "You know what I mean. As I was saying not doing anything for four years is bound to make anyone a little out of form. We shall remedy that in do time. Now, it is quite evident that he is impatient from the way his is grasping at the bodice of his gown. Did you see? Tugging at it, in fact. No doubt sitting still for the photographer was a challenge for him. The muscles in his legs are completely taught. When one is intolerant of a situation, they tend to tense up their body. And as for being very active, I noticed that his right elbow, the one visible, is scratched. This is the exact sort of mark one would expect from a child that is rough and active in his play, yet falls enough. Hence unsteady. No doubt if his knees were discernible they to, would be scuffed and marred."  
  
I felt a smile creep on my face then before I could stop it. For the first time since Holmes had shown up in that unexpected manner, I began to feel as I always had when in his presence. Light-hearted, cheerful, amiable, at times baffled, but still. There is not another man whose company I more thoroughly enjoy. Just to see him back and working again...well, it was enough to fulfil my heart to somewhat the same state that it had been in before my loss. "You have described Josh to a T, I dare say Holmes. It is as if you have known him his entire life."  
  
"Josh, is it?" He asked.  
"Well, it is actually John Sherlock[7] Watson. Mary came up with Josh. You know-the 'JO" from his first name and the 'SH' from his middle."  
  
"John...Sherlock? Good He...Watson, I am honoured. You would really name you child after me?"  
  
I was pleased that he said so, although I will give to him that he tried very much not to look as though he were honoured. "Well, his middle name anyway. And besides, I thought that I was honouring your memory."  
  
He flashed me that grin that I so associated with him. "Well, whatever your motives were, it was the most benevolent gesture I dare say I have ever been graced with."  
  
Because accolades were so rare from my friend, I couldn't help be feel a flush a pleasure throughout my face. I had never had to anticipate his reaction on this point because of obvious reasons, but had he been alive when I had decided to bestow this title upon my son, I would have been wary as to his reaction. Unwarranted shows of admiration were something he turned his nose up at; once he even refused a knighthood by the Queen[8] herself, because he found himself unworthy of such pomp and stance. I was much pleased that in this case he apparently thought much of my bequeathing an honoured name on my child. So pleased in fact was I that I could not also resist saying, "You are also, Holmes, Josh's Godfather. Posthumously of course, at least I thought so, but I convinced the vicar that this was in exceptional case."  
  
Holmes did not respond right away, but rather stood in his silent world, studying the flames in the fireplace as if they held a marvel of secrets, slowly sucking on yet another cigarette. I became some what concerned after a full minute of silence passed, and still he had not even commented. I knew that Holmes' religious affirmations were hazy at best, and although I only occasionally attended chapel, he never did. He had never expressed any exact affiliations as far as the subject as a whole was concerned, but perhaps they were deeper than first I thought. Perhaps I had even offended him by my presumptuousness.  
  
At last though, when the fire had worn down to the paper of his smoke, he pitched it into the fire and clapped me quite suddenly on the shoulder, sending a start of pain through my old wound[9]  
  
"I cannot wait to meet the lad!" He exclaimed. "As never would I imagine that I would have for myself a Godchild."  
  
Relief flooded me, and silently I allowed a breath out. Although, despite it all, it did seem strange that Holmes would be excited to meet a child, even my own. He had never appeared to me a man who found much use for children, except for his own benefit, such as the Irregulars. Perhaps there was a bit of that famous wry humour in that statement, but I ignored it, in any case. "Well, you shall, in any case. Tomorrow, if convenient for you. I, for one, should be eager to see my old diggings once again. How I have missed that old sitting room!"  
  
"Did you now?" There appeared in his face a glimmer of joy upon this, and he leaned forward expectantly. "Have you missed it enough that you would be willing to return and occupy it full time?"  
  
"Occupy it full...what are you talking about, old man?"  
  
He shrugged his shoulders. "My dear fellow, how can I make it any clearer? I am asking you to consent to share 221B with me once again."  
  
"But, Holmes, wait..."  
  
He began to shake his hand wildly and I knew no amount of protestation would shake his iron reserve. "Now, now, I've already thought the whole thing through, and can find no fault in my line of reason. You no longer need such large quarters for only yourself and child, and if I know you, which of course I do, I am certain you were thinking of selling anyway and moving nearer to your surgery, were you not?"  
  
"Well, yes...the thought had...,"  
  
"Capital! Baker Street is only three streets over, and of course, when the sicknesses slow, you will consent to re-join the agency, will you not?"  
  
"But Holmes, what about my son? Or have you conveniently put him out of your mind because it doesn't fit with your plans.?"  
  
He snorted, a sure sign of annoyance in the man. "Of course not. I have already talked to Mrs. Hudson about it. She agreed that the storage room attic should be turned into a bedroom for young Josh."  
  
"But where will his nurse stay?"  
  
"What does he need a nanny for? Mrs. Hudson will look after him while you are at your practice and of course, while the game is afoot."  
  
"Oh, no, I couldn't impose on her like that."  
"You would disappoint her greatly, I'm afraid, if you do not, Watson. When I first broached the subject with her, she was positively keyed up. Her children are all grown and gone, and you know how much she cares for them."  
  
"But, Holmes, that's not the point." Although at that moment, I admit, I didn't know what the point was. I guess it was all just happening too quickly. I wasn't sure that I was ready to leave the home of my wife so soon, and resume my old lifestyle. But I had to admit there was a certain amount of allure about it. Back at Baker Street, back where the action was, back to my life's purpose....God, did I just think that? My life's purpose was to tend to the sick, not to follow around this eccentric, arrogant fellow and characterize him like some child hero-worshipping another. Surely that was not my purpose on this earth. Surely...  
  
"Watson...." Holmes prodded, studying me lost in thought. "What are you thinking, doctor?"  
  
Shoving my hands in my pant's pockets, I shook my head. "I just don't know. I should really take some time to think about this whole thing. You've only just returned, and everything...my life is changing so rapidly. Give me the night, and..."  
  
"Of course! Take all the time you need! And now, Watson, if you don't mind, I have another appointment. Until tomorrow, 10 o'clock sharp at Baker Street, bring the boy and we'll discuss the intricacies of this change. I wish you a good-night, and Watson..." he paused and I watched as his face softened from steel to flesh for the second...or maybe the third time that night, a split second only before the cynicism returned. "It is glorious to see you again."  
  
"And you as well, my dear chap. And you as well. I...uh, am glad that I can say that, you know. And again, I apologize..."  
  
"No need! No need, Watson!" He interrupted me once again, but I could hardly harbour ill will at the sight of his happy state. And I must admit, it did my old heart much good to see him there, in my hallway, flinging his stick over his shoulder and touching his brim with a wide grin and then disappearing into the chill of the London night fog.  
  
After all this settling, and my row with Holmes finished, I expected to sleep like a baby that night. My nerves seemed to have returned to something of a normal state, and despite all that had happened, not to mention what was going to happen in the very near future, I felt a degree of peace that I hadn't known in months now.  
  
However, I was suddenly not the least bit weary, and I had much to think on. A quick glance at the fire showed me that in the time spent with my friend, it had dwindled down to popping cinders. I kept a basket of the previous weeks Times in order to start the fires. It must have been fate alone that the one I reached for was dated five days ago and also that for some reason, I was attracted to the headline on the front of the morning addition. Adair's murderer captured, it read. I had been so busy in my own scattered affairs, I had paid no head to any paper in a week. Yet as dutiful as ever, Ivy had continued to collect them and store them here. Quickly, I scanned the whole story.  
  
Inspector LeStrade of Scotland Yard announced to-day that Colonel  
Sebastian Moran, former of Her Majesty's Indian Army was taken under  
arrest for the murder of the Hon. Ronald Francis Adair, who was killed  
in his own home on the evening of the 30th. LeStrade is credited with  
the arrest, but championed an anonymous third party, saying that most  
of the credit was to go to this mysterious person. A model of a one-  
of-a kind air rifle was found on Colonel Moran's person, and this is  
believed to be the weapon used to kill Adair.  
  
I stopped reading there as I was struck with a sudden thought of Holmes referring to his injured neck and finger. I was pleased to rid London of the colonel's presence. He must have been referring to Colonel Sebastian Moran. For some reason, this name recalled something to my mind. In his book of names, in which Holmes records details about any and everyone newsworthy that may affect him in his work, and the volume of 'M' was especially filled with vile brutes. "After Moriarty," my friend had told me some time ago, "Colonel Moran is the second most dangerous man in London." I had thought nothing of it at the time, but now even my brain could make the connection. Holmes had needed me the other night, needed me to round up this last lingering threat to his safe return, and how I had reacted? By throwing him out of my house.  
  
My body stiffened slightly as I slunk into an armchair and picked up my cherrywood pipe. "Oh, Holmes, I should have never forgiven myself if some real harm had befallen you." I mumbled. The pipe felt smooth and comfortingly warm to my bare hand. It had, in fact, been a Christmas present these five years ago from my dear friend. I did enjoy a good pipe every now and then, although it was he that was the real pipe fiend. This particular one was especially fine, and although I never said it, I am sure that he should not have spent so much on me. And I knew then, as I heard the 'strack' of the match and saw the thick plume of smoke swirl around my head that I had to repay him for all of this. I had to go back. Back to Baker Street, back to The Strand, and most of all, back to my assistance, however single-mindedly it was, back to Sherlock Holmes.  
  
Chapter four  
  
Over my breakfast and paper the following morning, I informed Ivy that I would be giving her leave, as I was planning on selling my Kensington house to move closer to my practice. She, of course, knew little if anything as to the identity of the visitor of the previous night, and I felt it not necessary to explain why I was really leaving. I promised her a worthy bonus with her last pay as well as the best of references. She didn't look very surprised, at least until she asked what I planned to do with Josh.  
  
"Will you be hiring another nurse, sir?" She asked.  
  
"No, I'll be tending to him myself."  
The look she gave me caused me to pay much attention to my coffee cup and feign interest in an article on French trading tariffs. "Well, I will have the help of an old friend as well." As if I owed her an explanation.  
  
"Yes, sir." She began to clear the tray. I realized right then just what exactly I was undertaking. Two bachelors living as flat mates was not uncommon and not looked upon as odd. However, one queer old bachelor and a recent widower with a young son, living together without a nurse and only one landlady to cook and clean was. A man of my means raising a child with...well, frankly, another man was going to raise a lot of eyebrows.  
  
By the time I got to the nursery, Ivy already had Josh fed and dressed. He was making out words with his alphabet bricks, sprawled out on his stomach on the floor. I noticed the words "Josh" "Papa" "Mama" and "Baby." My head bowed down, studying the floral pattern on the carpeting. It would be best to get him settled into his new house as soon as possible. If I could barely cope with this whole situation than how could I expect a three year- old child to do so.  
  
He looked up as I was pondering this, and gave me a delightful grin. "Hello, papa."  
  
"Hello, hello. Did you have a good breakfast?"  
  
"There was bacon," he said, now digging around for a 'g' to complete the word 'dog'. "I like bacon."  
  
"Do you now?" I said with a laugh. "Well, I have something else to tell you that I know you shall like. We are going out today. To meet a very important person."  
  
He looked up with some interest reflecting in his eyes, like two precious sapphires. "Is it the queen?" He asked.  
  
I laughed. "Oh, not quite that important."  
  
"The prime minister?"  
  
"No, no. You shall never guess because you have really never known him. Yet he is your very own Godfather."  
  
"I have a Godfather?"  
  
"Indeed you do."  
  
He thought this over for some time, crawling into my lap with his stuffed dog in his mouth. He was as bad as Holmes and his pipes and cigarettes, not comfortable unless he was chewing on something. "What is a Godfather?" He asked, as I pulled Blackie free.  
  
I knew he hadn't known. "Well...it is someone who will care for you should anything happen to me." I couldn't even begin to explain the religious aspects of it to his satisfaction. "His name is Mr. Sherlock Holmes."  
  
"Oh, I know him," Josh said. "He is the man from your stories. The one who likes to solve mysteries."  
  
"Indeed he is. He is also your Godfather and namesake."  
  
"But you said that he was dead."  
  
He said it so casually that I was uneasy in my mind. He did not fully comprehend what the word 'dead' meant. My fault, no doubt. I gave him conflicting ideas by an affectionate account of his mother and sister taking a trip to Heaven, yet when I last referred to Holmes, it was simply that he was dead. No wonder the boy talked so unsympathetically.  
  
"That was what I thought for some years now," I explained. "However, I just recently learned that I was mistaken. Mr. Holmes is indeed alive, and we are to meet him this very day."  
  
He shrugged. "Okay, papa. I guess I should like to meet my own Godfather."  
  
I thought then of all the people, in the course of the years I had spent with Holmes, who had heard of him through his most generously earned reputation and were practically giddy to meet his acquaintance. It seemed humorous to me that my own son talked about something that some people took as a pivotal moment in their life as nothing more than a day outing. If one didn't know better, one would think he had somehow inherited that dry, droll sense of humour that so associated him. How, I don't know, but...  
  
"I think that you shall find him a most interesting man, Josh. Well, come along then. We don't want to be late."  
  
"Are we taking a carriage?" He asked.  
  
"Of course."  
  
He grinned as I bundled him into his coat, hat and mittens. He loved more than anything to ride in the cabs, because of course, of the horses. I could see that so far as he knew, the ride to Baker Street would be the highlight of the day. He was, though, very mistaken.  
I had, of course, passed 221B several times during these last years, but always I found that it had a cold presence about it. I thought to stop and see dear old Mrs. Hudson, but in the end, I could not. To see the sitting room, preserved by Mycroft Holmes exactly as it had been would have been too much. The Persian slipper of tobacco...the chemicals lying about...the old padded wicker armchair...the violin...no, I could not stand to see that empty house.  
  
"Is this were my Godfather lives?" Josh asked, studying the flat with wide eyes. He was somewhat wary and bashful around people he had never met, and I knew, if nothing else, this was going to be a strange encounter between the child and the man who in some ways were so alike, and in others, total opposites.  
  
"Yes, indeed. And we..." but then I remembered that I had not yet explained to him that I planned to move back here. Better to wait for a more opportune moment. I was uncertain as to what he may think. He had never known any other home but our lodgings in Kensington, and to leave the house that held so many reminders of Mary...well, it would take some time to get used to for the both of us.  
  
"We what, papa?"  
  
"Never mind just now. Give me your hand, and remember to be as polite as possible."  
  
Mrs. Hudson answered my bell promptly, and for a second, but only a second, I was struck with the queerest sensation of being unsure what to say or do, and everything Holmes saying about her being overjoyed about the entire situation being a...fabrication. My faith was restored when I saw that dear old face widen into a grin lit with the most genuine of lights. "Oh, Dr. Watson. It is so good to see you again," she clasped her steady hands onto my one free one, and I felt a great breath of London smog exhale my lungs upon the sight of it. To think that I would feel any consternation at 221B Baker street was absurd. It was...and I guess always shall be considered my one true home.  
  
Giving her a sincere smile, I leaned forward to kiss her cheek. "It is likewise to see you, Mrs. Hudson. It really has been too long."  
  
"Oh, indeed it has been, sir. To think that I should have the two of you in this house again. Oh, it shall be like olden times again, Doctor Watson."  
  
I nodded, wishing that she had left out the part about being in the house again. I hoped that it went over Josh's head. "Mrs. Hudson, this is my son, Josh. Josh, this is Mrs. Hudson, whom I hope that you may grow much attached to."  
  
"Hello," the boy said. "Do you make good cake?"  
  
I stifled a laugh, but it was quite clear that my old landlady had quite already fallen for the cherub cheeks and strawberry curls. "Dr. Watson, he is the spitting image of you, no doubt, at that age! Lovely...just lovely. And yes, love, if it's cake you desire than you shall have it."  
  
"I would be careful about making too many promises with him, Mrs. Hudson. He will hold you to them."  
  
"Pish, posh," she said, squeezing his large head. "It shall be a pleasure to cook for somewhat who appreciates it." She raised her eyes toward the floor above and I knew just what she was talking about.  
  
Josh put up with these little molestations better than most young boys. He reminded me of Holmes in that way, always eager to be fondled over, in a matter of speaking. Their friendship was sealed with the promise of cake and sweets.  
  
"I must go up and see Mr. Holmes, now," I told her.  
  
"I shall bring you up a pot of tea, sir. And some cake for this young rascal right here."  
  
I picked my son up to cross the seventeen stairs to the sitting room as he is most unsteady on anything of an inclining nature yet. The first thing I noticed was that there was a most curious smell coming from the sitting room. Holmes was no doubt playing with his chemicals again.  
  
The room, however, was exactly as I remembered it from the years I spent sharing it. My old chair looked so inviting alone by the fire. There was my desk where I spent much time compiling the adventures of my celebrated comrade, even the humidor where Holmes generously kept filled with some of my favourite cigars. But the majority of the room was his. Especially so right at that moment with the sharp, dusty smell of a boiling bluish chemical in a retort. I hadn't the slightest idea as to what he was doing, or using, for that matter, but the smell of chemicals, any, mixed with a cloud of thick tobacco was familiar and welcoming.  
  
"Holmes, I say, what are you doing?"  
  
He looked up from his table he was hunched over, as if first noticing our presence. "Halloa, Dr. Watson! Is it half past the hour already? Well, so it is, so it is!" In an instant he had sprung to his feet and was upon us with a wide Holmesian grin. One that betrayed happiness and revealed that steel trap of a mind ticking away, although on what I cannot say. He certainly hadn't answered my question.  
  
"Well, in any case, whatever potion you are concocting, I have no doubt that you will not mind leaving it for a few moments so that a proper introduction can be made. Holmes, this is my son Master John Sherlock Watson. Josh, this is my dear friend, and your Godfather, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."  
"A pleasure to meet your acquaintance, Josh. If you like apples, I have some fresh ones in the bowl over there. Grapes, too."  
  
"How did you know that he loves apples?" I asked. I didn't remember telling him any such things.  
  
"Oh, Watson...Watson, deduce, deduce! It is plain as the nose on your face."  
  
But all I could do was shrug. "I can deduce nothing."  
  
Holmes unravelled one long finger and pointed it in the direction of the lace edged collar of my son's gown. As I looked closer, I saw a faint stain, amberish in colour, and very faint. As the collar was virgin white, I was sure that this was exactly the sort of stain that a messy child dribbling the juice from apples would make. "Aha, I see."  
  
"No, thank you," Josh spoke up. "I do like apples, but the lady downstairs is going to bring me some cake. Besides, you smell funny."  
  
"Josh!" I said, wringing his hand with my own embarrassment, "I told you that you must be polite," but Holmes only exploded with laughter.  
  
"No, Watson. Don't rebuke him for being honest. Ah, if only we adults did not lose our childhood virtues in order to correspond with the convention's of society. Yet ab incunabulis[10] we try to squash it out of them." He squatted down to three year old level and the steely grey eyes studied the innocent blue ones. "Do you know why I smell funny, my boy?"  
  
"Because you were playing with the blue stuff over there."  
  
"Very good! And what does that blue stuff smell like?"  
  
"It smells very bad."  
  
"Yes, but what does it smell like? Think, my boy, think."  
  
Josh considered the problem for several seconds. "It smells like a book. I like to read books."  
  
"Capital! Capital, Josh! I knew I was right in my assessments of you!" I was more than a little surprised when Holmes picked the boy into his arms with a whirl of excitement uttered by the boy. "You see," he explained to me. "I have been working with Rhodamine. It is a dye made by fusing an amino derivative of phenol alcohol with phthalic anhydride. I have reason to believe that it may be the vital ingredient in a new powder I am concocting. One that shall make the art of fingerprint tracing infinitely simpler. But also, as your son has reasoned, rhodamine is also a common substance used in the process of paper making."  
  
"Ah, yes, well...it's been some time...since I took a chemistry class."  
  
"I suggest that you do not wait too long before allowing me to tutor Josh in the subject. The younger one starts, the more he shall know in the long run." He set the boy back down and patted his head. "Now, lad. What else do you deduce about me?"  
  
"What does deduce mean?"  
  
It was my turn to laugh. "You see, Holmes! He is not quite as far along as you would like!"  
  
"A trifle," he replied, waving his hand. "Deduction, my young friend, is the most important thing you shall ever learn. To deduce is to perceive, infer, to figure out in fact. It is using your mind to logically reason all that is not obvious, all that one would hold secret."  
  
I was about to tell Holmes right then, I sat in my chair smoking on a ship[11] that his definition, while exact and ornate, was about as clear to my son as his explanation of the uses of rhodamine were to me, when Josh suddenly nodded his head. "Okay. I like to figure out things. I adduce..."  
  
"Deduce," Holmes corrected, standing with a finger folded in front of his mouth.  
  
"I deduce that you smoke too much."  
  
I was so shocked that I nearly knocked my cigarette into my lap. As it was, I still jumped to my feet as if there was a burning hole in my seat. "How on earth did you know that?"  
  
"It was easy, papa," Josh said, climbing into my lap. "I deduced all of his pipes over there. No one has that many pipes unless they smoke a lot."  
  
"Ah, but how do you know that I smoke them? Perhaps they are just there for decoration."  
  
"No...you smoke them. The inside hole part is black from smoke."  
  
"Well, I never..." I mumbled under my breath, patting the boy on his head. "It seems there are two of you that I must put up with now."  
  
"Deductive reasoning, Watson," Holmes said, tapping his head. "Young Josh has it in vast quantities. We must see that he does not lose it."  
  
"Yes, indeed. Josh," I said. "Why don't you run along downstairs and see Mrs. Hudson about our tea and cake?" I set him on his feet, and gave him a pat on the bum.  
  
"Okay, papa," he said, skipping to the door. But then he turned and gave Holmes the queerest look I have ever seen pass before his young face. His features were contorted, his brow furrowed, and his lips pursed. The look could only remind me of but one thing. A certain man before the fire, church warden[12] hanging from thin lips, mind any other place but here, in the Baker Street sitting room. I fully expected something truly philosophical to pass from my child's mouth, however, I was somehow greatly relieved when it did not. "What do I call you?" He asked of my friend.  
  
"You call him Mr. Holmes, Josh." I said, but somehow I knew Holmes, who had seemingly discovered a kindred spirit in the body of a three year old, would not have it.  
  
"No, no, Watson, that won't do. That simply won't do. Now, my boy, what would you like to call me?"  
  
"Uncle" replied Josh, as if he had been giving it hours of serious thought.  
  
"But he is not your uncle," I said with a laugh.  
  
"That matters little, does it? If that is what you wish you call me, then so it shall be." And the two smiled at each other, a smile of certainty and likeness, a smile of the past and the future. And then, Josh opened the door and I could hear his slow, unsteady footfalls on the steps.  
  
I turned to my friend to find him already looking at me. "He is quite a remarkable child."  
  
"I like to think so. Although, I must confess, Holmes, I have never seen you take an interest in such a...domestic thing."  
  
"Well, I have never had issue to before. However, that is a conversation for another time. We, my friend, have things to discuss. Things regarding you occupying that empty room just above us permanently once again. You will, won't you?"  
  
I could have been angry at his impudence. Among the things I counted as his faults, assuming too much (especially with myself) was at the top of the list. However, I had put up with it so long, I should think I may have missed it had this part of him suddenly dissipated. No other man knew me so intimately. "Well, Holmes, you know doubt had it reasoned before even broaching the subject that I could not refuse. So, of course, I will be happy to move back here."  
"You do not have to do anything you do not want, Watson. Your tone suggests...well, I only hoped you would, but I don't want you to go against your wishes."  
  
"No, no," I said, with a smile. "I didn't mean it like that. Forgive me. I only meant. Well, I guess I am a little concerned about how all of this will affect my son."  
  
Holmes was busying himself lighting his pipe, but I have no doubt that he had no concerns on the subject. Flicking his match into the fire, he said, "You are concerned about...let me see...my influence on the child?"  
  
"Not at all!" I exclaimed, before I could stop it. But he had come closer to the truth than I would have preferred. And the queer grin the permeated his face despite the long handle of the pipe showed me that he realized this. "It is just...Holmes, I know my child better than you. He is very devoted. And one needn't have your mind to see that he will become quite attached to you. And I have some proclivities about your...lifestyle. I think you know what I mean."  
  
He was chewing on the stem now, rolling it around his mouth as his brain rolled around the problem. "What do you ask of me?"  
  
I had been trying since the previous night on how best to approach this delicate situation. As of yet, I hadn't thought of a favourable way. "Well, we must be, at least somewhat, conscious of who we allow in here. I don't want him subjected to any shady characters."  
  
"Ah-hmm....yes, shady characters. Well, I shall do my best. What else?"  
  
"Holmes," said I, clenching my knees with sweaty hands. "You know what else. The subject of your addiction."  
  
He actually looked almost amused. I hated that, but he never would listen to me as far as that damn cocaine needle was concerned. "What about it? Are you ordering me to stop, doctor?"  
  
"I have no right to do such a thing. Although you know my wishes on the subject. However, if Josh is to be living here with you and I, I won't subject him to your...shall we say, darker moods. It's not fair to him, for you know as well as I he won't understand. He must know nothing of that...contraption." I waved in the direction of the locked drawer in his desk. In it sat his syringe and at least one bottle of seven percent solution cocaine. Three years had not made me oblivious to that reality.  
  
"Then you have my word, doctor, that never shall Josh bare witness to any of my little weaknesses. The needle included."  
  
"Thank you," I said, but could think of nothing to add to it.  
"Ah, Watson, this is going to be just like old times again," he was to his feet and pacing about the room like a restless animal, hands folded behind his back. "You, my friend, are the one constant in an ever changing time. I fear, Watson, that I shall need your company in these coming years. That was why I was so insistent that you come to live here once again. A dark cloud has shrouded this great city of ours, and it will be our duty to penetrate it with some manner of light. We are pilgrims in a savage land."  
  
"Pilgrims? Dark clouds? Isn't this all a little philosophical for you, my dear fellow?"  
  
"Perhaps," said he, pausing to gaze upon the traffic of London below us. His shadow seemed vague and iridescent against the flickering wall. It was as if someone only disguised as him was speaking to me. "But I have been at the chasm of death. The point were one can see not only what was, but what will be. It is our destiny that commands us, and the future which guides our present[13] And it is a black future indeed."  
  
"Holmes," I said, moving quietly to stand beside him. "I know you have a tendency toward cynicism. But never have I seen such strange words of anger."  
  
"A countenance more in sorrow than in anger[14], my dear Watson. No, it is only that we are so near a new century. The twentieth century. Just think on it, Watson! This will be the greatest century yet known to modern man. A new century and a new criminal mind. I alone will find that for all my powers, I may not be prepared to meet the challenges that lay ahead."  
  
"Oh, come now, Holmes. Surely if there ever was a man worthy of advisory in a new age, it is you."  
  
He smiled, and clubbed me on the arm. "We shall see, doctor. Indeed we shall see. However, the thought that I have you by my side fulfils me with new hope."  
  
I can only say here that my friend's recent experience with Professor Moriarty at Reichenbach most have had a more profound effect than first I thought. I have never known him to speak of the future, and even if he had, I hadn't known it to be some bleak prediction of not being worthy to face it. And yet, in the coming months, he would face the future in a case that never before have I taken up my pen to write before. Yet, I will do it now to show you just why Holmes feared the unknown. These next years would be some of the most changing of my life, and some of the most revealing for my dear friend. Perhaps he had a premonition. Or perhaps, at last, he realized that our relationship would never be the same again. And all of it began with one case, one case that started as any other, yet ended as no other had.  
  
----------------------- [1] "The Blue Carbuncle" [2] "The Hound of the Baskervilles" [3] Holmes quotes Poe-"The Raven" [4] from "Macbeth" (3.2.11) [5] I know that Holmes actually arrives back in London in the spring of 1894, but it fit better for my benefit to change it to the winter. [6] Watson's statement is viable because young children in that age were nearly impossible to discern between boys and girls. Josh's hair was probably kept long, and he would have worn dresses until somewhere between the ages of three to seven, at which time he would have been breeched. [7] Okay, this seems to be a common name for any son of Watson in fan- fiction. But it just fits so perfectly. To show a little creativity, I gave him Josh as a nickname. [8] Technically, Holmes' offer of knighthood comes by Edward, and not Victoria, and occurred in 1902 (3GAR), eight years after this story takes place. But for fictional benefits, the author is taking the liberty of saying it occurred somewhat earlier. [9] There is some debate in the Canon as to the wherabouts of this mysterious wound. In STUD, it appears in Watson's left shoulder, but in SIGN and henceforth, it is in his leg. For the benefit of this story, a common approach has been taken, and poor Watson is wounded in both places. [10] Latin-'from infancy' [11] slang for navy tobacco. Watson tells Holmes in "A Study in Scarlet" that he always smokes ships. Seems a little odd for an old Army man, but...there's canonical fidelity for you. [12] A long-stemmed clay pipe [13]Holmes quotes, or rather butchers, Nietzche. The full quote reads "Our destiny commands us even when we do not yet know what it is, it is the future which guides the rule to out present." [14] This is from Horatio, in Hamlet. 


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks to those who reviewed! I decided that in the interest of ease, I would update with smaller blocks of the story, rather than wait longer and have more.  
  
Chapter five  
  
It did not take as long for me to get back into my routine as I thought it would. Not that I forgot Mary, or any of the strange events of the last several weeks, but there was something about Baker Street that had a healing presence about me. It was all just so familiar. It must have been all the time I have spent there, all the time with Holmes.  
  
But what I was not prepared for was exactly what I feared would happen. It occurred just days after the sale of my home in Kensington, just when I thought things may be looking up...  
  
There was an influenza outbreak in the west end, where the majority of my patients were found, and I, along with most other doctors were trying to quell it before it turned into an epidemic. This, plus the move, and trying to decide what to do with my late wife's possessions occupied my mind fully, making me grateful for the help of Mrs. Hudson, and Holmes himself were my son was concerned. Perhaps this was why I paid little heed to what I later found the 'whispered gossip' of Harley Street.  
  
My assistant at the time, James Parks, I shall always regard as a good man and a talented doctor, one whom I will be indebted to for all the times he took the lead for me, especially in those last brutal weeks. However, he was young and a bit impetuous at times, and more than anything else, a little too trusting when it came to those ugly rumours.  
  
"So how are you getting along now, Watson?" He asked me one evening, as we were preparing to close up for the night. "Settling back into the same old routine?"  
  
"Yes, I think so." What I really wanted was to get out as rapidly as possible. I was not a fellow for idle chatter those days. Always there was somewhere to be, something to do.  
  
"It is strange, you know..." he continued, handing me my overcoat. "That you would decide to move back to your old lodgings. I mean, I understand your wanting to be rid of the house. Too many memories and everything, but back to that old flat? With Sherlock Holmes of all people?"  
  
"I am sorry, Parks, but I fail to see how any of this concerns you."  
  
He shrugged. "Please don't think me presumptuous. Prying into your private affairs like this. It is just..."  
  
"What, man?"  
"Come off it, John. I have known you for some time now. I thought we could speak freely to one another."  
  
I did not like where this was leading. But I put on a blank expression, as if I had not the slightest clue what he was getting at. Casually, I slid my coat on, pretending to brush some imaginary dust from the top of my bowler. "Certainly speak freely, James. I dislike beating around the bush, as they say."  
  
He was licking his lips, folding his hands, shifting around. It did not take Sherlock Holmes to sense the uneasiness in that consulting room. "People are talking," he said. "All around. Osgood, Johnson, even your old friend, Joseph Blakely. You are a widower. With a child, no less. And..." he leaned in so near to me I could smell the remains of iodine upon his skin. "You are living with another man. And with no nurse for your son. It's not...It's just not normal."  
  
I nearly had to laugh at how pawky[1] he was being. From the deep tone of voice, you would think the message he was dealing was my epitome upon my tombstone. "My dear Parks," I said. "If this innocent arrangement between myself and Sherlock Holmes is causing that much rumour and speculation than I really feel that we medical men have far too much time on our hands. I will admit that the arrangement is a little...unorthodox. But as you well know, in my spare time I enjoy assisting Holmes. I am sure you have read the Strand magazine? It is more convenient living under the same roof with him to accomplish this. Not to mention that I have no need as well as no desire for such a large house now that it is just Josh and I. And as far as my son is concerned, he is being well taken care of by my landlady, I woman in whom I have complete trust. I fail to see how this is so great a blasphemy to accepted standards of living?"  
  
"Well..." Parks said, trying desperately to come up with a logical retort to that. I smiled to myself, feeling quite victorious. Picking up my stick, I tipped my hat.  
  
"If this conversation is over, than surely you will not think me rude if I leave? I am expected at home." But just as my hand closed around the doorknob, Parks spoke once more.  
  
"Do you think, Watson, that it is wise to allow Josh to spend so much time with Mr. Holmes?"  
  
That statement surprised me so that I nearly dropped both my hat and stick. Slowly I turned back around to face him. "Why wouldn't it be wise?"  
  
"Even you have admitted he is a bit of a rum[2] fellow. When a man chooses never to marry, my friend, do you not question as to the reason why?"  
  
"Holmes is not a marrying man, Parks. He...well, he thinks that women are not to be trusted. I do not know where exactly his misogynistic attitude came from, but...what are you insinuating, man?" I felt my grip tighten significantly on my cane. I truly think that at that moment I would be prepared to use it, if necessary.  
  
"Are you sure that is the only reason he has never married? Do you propose to tell me that you never at least thought there could be another, more sinister motive to his actions?"  
  
My face flooded with angry blood then. To Hell with my stick, I would thrash him with my bare hands! It would be significantly more satisfying. "How dare you, Parks! How dare you insinuate that he and I..."  
  
"No! God, no, John! That was not what I meant!" He stepped back, waving his short arms in front of him. There was fear registering all across his body, and I took a deep breath. Truly if body-language is any indication than I believed that he had not meant that. "I know that you are a real man, Watson, and I would never suggest otherwise. You have proven yourself to both your country and fellow man. And I know you loved Mary and care deeply for Josh. But it has been speculated...only speculated, mind you, that Sherlock Holmes...well, is not all man, in that respect."  
  
"You can believe whatever you care to, James," said I, narrowing my eyes. "My assurances that Sherlock Holmes is the best man I have ever had the privilege of knowing would do little to convince you, I am sure. But let me state it anyway. To tell you the truth, I have no idea what the man feels in his heart. If he is inclined toward anything....anything not acceptable in our society, than I am not aware of it. However, I have no regrets about his spending time with my son, as well as having no regrets about he as a flatmate, a friend and a man in general. And you can inform Osgood, Johnson, Blakely, and anyone else who would care to spread foul suppositions of these facts. Good-evening, Dr. Parks."  
  
And with that said, I opened the door and closed it none too gently behind me.  
*  
  
It was a short cab ride to Baker Street, but that night it seemed longer than usual. Parks' words flooded my mind, and as angry as I was, I couldn't stop repeating them. I was sure that he was mistaken. Holmes was brilliant, arrogant, eccentric as most true geniuses are, but surely that was all he was. He may not be inclined toward passion with woman, but that did certainly not mean he was so toward men. After all, we had lived together for more than a decade. If he were, surely I would have seen some sign of it by now. If there was any reason to not allow Josh to be around him, it was more along the lines of his tendency to be irresponsible when it came to his own safety. Those damn chemicals...one day I was going to find the house blown to bits. Not to mention the classes of people that he carried on with.  
  
After my argy-bargy[3] with Dr. Parks, I was nearly an hour later than I intended. Mrs. Hudson was in the kitchen, preparing supper, so I let myself in and went to the sitting room. I was sure that was where I would find Josh and Holmes.  
I was not only right, but just in time to witness a brilliant display of reddish coloured smoke explode out of a now shattered retort. A disgusting foul smell filled my nostrils and burned at my lungs. The first thing that flashed in my mind was one of instinct, one of war, and that was to hit the deck-enemy fire. My shoulder and leg even gave a transitory sting of pain in response; those Jezail bullets ripping through my mind. However, my second instinct was to grab my child, and that was what I did.  
  
"Josh! Are you alright? Are you hurt?" I covered his body with mine as smoke was still swirling from the table, clouding the room.  
  
"It's okay, papa...I'm not hurt." He looked at me with confused eyes, slightly watery. "Me and uncle were just doing a 'speriment."  
  
"I'm sure you were!" I said, coughing. "Holmes, what is the meaning of this? What on earth were you thinking! You both could have both been killed!"  
  
Casually, my friend rose and made his way to the window, ushering the dissipating fumes into the London night. "Well, that was a bit unexpected, was it not, Josh? I am afraid that we may have used a few millilitres too much of bromine. The toxicity of it mixed with the heat was more than the glass could take. Oh, well. 'It is through suffering that learning comes.'[4] We shall know next time."  
  
"Next time!" I expostulated. "Toxicity! Are these fumes toxic, Holmes?"  
  
"Oh, no, no...of course not, Watson," he replied waving an indifferent hand. "Did you think I am mad? No, the bromine is only toxic if you ingest it. Although as you are aware the smell is not particularly pleasant."  
  
"Josh," said I, setting him back to the ground. "Please go downstairs and visit Mrs. Hudson for a bit. I must speak with Mr. Holmes."  
  
"But Papa"-  
  
"Now, boy!"  
  
His chin trembled at my rebuke as he made his way to the door, but he obeyed without another protest. I knew he detested rows even more than I. And I would bet a year's pension that he wanted to tell me not to be mad at his 'uncle.' But I was mad. Not necessarily at Holmes, just disputatious toward the whole world in general.  
  
Holmes waved his hand over the pipe rack as if conjuring up some great illusion. He finally settled on his old favourite, the calabash, and filled it with tobacco from the Persian slipper, settling into his armchair. The disgusting red fog from the bromine experiment gone awry had dissipated and he set forth to refilling the room with thick blue smoke. "You seem distraught, doctor," he finally said. "Disagreeable day?"  
He was not asking but telling me, I was sure. That was how he worked. His tone, however, suggested humour of all things. I really did not understand what had become of the Holmes I had grown accustomed to. "You know, I really can't see why you are so jovial of late. There are no perplexing problems to occupy your mind. Yet there is no black mood that I would have expected by now. How came this affectatious attitude of yours?"  
  
"Ah, my friend, life is too short for black moods. Besides, what led you to believe there was nothing to occupy my mind?"  
  
I was sure I was not hearing correctly. Life is too short? No, that was something Sherlock Holmes would never say. I had a brief strange image of one Holmes-cynical and barely human going over a cliff rushing with water in the Swiss Alps and another Holmes-a far more human Holmes-climbing out of the dark depths like some miraculous re-birth. Suddenly the whole conversation with James Parks seemed rather puerile.[5] Should it bother me that there was a bit of gossip about the City concerning Holmes and I? And mostly he, for that matter.  
  
A thick breath of poisonous atmosphere exited my lungs; all I could do was shake my head. "Holmes, I am not sure how or where this new leaf of yours turned over, if that is really what it is, but you really must be more careful. People...well, just be cautious, alright? Especially with my child."  
  
He was chewing on the stem of his pipe again, something that irritated me to the core, although I cannot say why. It reminded me of Josh and his stuffed dog. "I would not jeopardize that boy's safety, Watson."  
  
"Ha! You don't think blowing up vials of poisonous chemicals jeopardizes his safety? Not to mention mine and your own?"  
  
Snorting, he turned away. His way of refusing to answer. And the thin pointed jaw would stay clamped shut until the heat was off. Our conversation was at an end.  
  
"You can be stubborn if you wish," said I. "But if you care for our friendship at all, Holmes, you will take care in regards to your actions. Now, I'm going to see my son to bed."  
  
"Are you asking, doctor," he called as I was halfway through the sitting room door. "For the sake of John Sherlock? Or for your own?"  
  
I silently shut the door behind me.  
*  
  
Josh insisted on being read to every night, a habit I not only encouraged, but enjoyed. He liked Grimm's fairy tales and Hans Christian Andersen, as well as the Mother Goose tales. They bored me truthfully, and I longed for the day when he and I could sit and discuss books that we both enjoyed. Perhaps he would even follow my footsteps and join the medical profession. But for now, it was 'Cinderella.'  
  
"You aren't mad at uncle, are you, Papa?" He asked when I had finished.  
  
"No," I said with a smile. "I just warned him that he needs to be a little more...grounded."  
  
"Why would he need to lay on the ground?"  
  
"Never mind," I said with a laugh. "Go to sleep, darling boy."  
  
As I got up to turn down the gas, his small voice called out. "Are we going to stay here forever?"  
  
"Well....I don't know about forever. But at least for the time being. Do you not like it here?"  
  
"I like it. But I miss Ivy. And Mummy..." his eyes fell to the framed portrait of her and I that I had given him. It sat on the small night table next to his bed.  
  
"I know..." I said. "I miss her as well. But you like Mr. Holmes, don't you? And Mrs. Hudson?"  
  
That made his face light up. Indeed, the most remarkable thing I can think those first few weeks back at Baker Street brought on was the effect my child had on Holmes. I was busy with my practice, busier than I cared to be as I already said, and Josh was spending a lot of time with Holmes. He had already reported on all the things they had done together, such as trips to the chemistry lab at my old alma matter[6] and time spent here, 'playing with the coloured bottles,' as Josh was fond of saying. They had even made a trip to Scotland Yard, for what reason I was unsure. I cannot say exactly why Holmes preferred the company of a three year-old all of a sudden, but I can say that the two had become quite close.  
  
"I'm to become his pro-tay," Josh said proudly sitting up in bed.  
  
"His what?"  
  
"His pro-tay. He says that I have what it takes. I can be just like him some day."  
  
"God forbid...you mean he told you he wants you to be his protégé?"  
  
"I think so."  
What could I say to that? Except that I made up my mind right then and there that the two of them were spending far too much time together. I will admit that Josh did have a pleasant affect on my friend, and I hadn't noticed a single black mood, nor I think, a single use of the wretched needle, despite the fact that he didn't appear to have any work at the moment. My mind returned to our previous conversation. Life is too short, and all. Was it that Holmes now saw his life's purpose to raise another to replace him when he was gone? It was a wild, bizarre thought, but it made sense. Would he really do that? I was unsure. Holmes was a wildly unpredictable fellow, even more so of late. And also a man who I still thought of as unstable. It wouldn't do. I would have to spend more time at home. Even if it meant selling my practice and living on my meagre war pension and savings. I had to start thinking of my child.  
  
"Go to sleep, Joshie. If you want to be Holmes' protégé, or whatever it is he thinks he's playing at, then by all means. But I hope that very soon, I shall have enough time for you to want to be my protégé as well. You are my son, after all."  
  
"You mean you shall be home for awhile?" He looked so hopeful that I was instantly flooded with guilt.  
  
"I shall. Now, good-night."  
  
"Can we go to the zoo?"  
  
"Yes. But not now. Good-night."  
  
He smiled and lay back down. "'Night, Papa."  
  
I stood there in the converted attic nursery in the dim light watching him for several minutes. Truly the world must be a good place when one can see the children asleep. His blond curls sprawled out on the pillow, his chubby pink cheek, his tiny chest rhythmically rising and falling. With a sad smile, I shut his door. The last thing I thought of was his small hands, newly stained red and yellow with chemicals.  
  
It was the first thing I had noticed when I met Sherlock Holmes.  
*  
  
Rather than stay for supper, I asked Mrs. Hudson (thankfully oblivious to all the strange happenings) to keep an eye on Josh, and I headed back into the moonless, fog-of-a-winter's night to dine at my club.  
  
Parks was there and Joseph Blakely, as well as a few other fellow medical men I was acquainted with. Why it seemed a good idea to go there after the kind of day I was having I cannot say, except that I was filled with an intense need for reassuring normalcy. Sitting at home, second-guessing all my recent decisions while I listened to the quick secessions of mind- numbing violin notes whilst breathing in far too much strong pipe smoke and chemicals did not sound like normalcy right then.  
After a delicious meal of roast fowl and red potatoes, I took my brandy over to Parks' table where I was greeted with good humour. And no mention of anything distasteful. Only the usual conversations one would expect at any club with a table full of educated men: politics and Parliament, business, medicine and sports. I believe it was a young fellow I had seen only once or twice, a chap by the name of Davis who brought up the subject of a concert he'd attended the previous night at Albert Hall.  
  
"It really was incredible," said he. "I have always desired to be more musical myself. Perhaps I should have given more attention to my piano lessons as a boy."  
  
A round of light laughter followed. "I hear-or rather read- that your friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes is quite a violin virtuoso. Has he ever considered symphony playing?" Davis asked.  
  
"Ah...I think he has had offers as a matter of fact. But people always assume too much about those we consider celebrities." The last thing I wanted was the conversation to turn to him.  
  
"So he is not the master you make him out to be in your stories?"  
  
"Oh, he is a master alright. But probably would deny being so. At least where the violin is concerned." I finished off the last draught of brandy. "But he is very good in my opinion. He can improvise anything. And I believe he knows nearly every solo piece ever penned. He's...a bit of a perfectionist."  
  
"He sounds fascinating," Davis rolled on, leaning nearer to me excitedly. His youth and naivety were wearing on my nerves, certainly not winning him any points. "What clubs does he belong to?"  
  
I motioned to the valet for another drink. "None that I know of...have any you read of the work of this Austrian doctor? Freud, I believe his name is. It seems he is doing fascinating work in the field of mind research."  
  
Before anyone could even take a breath to respond, the wretched Davis broke in once again. "I say! No clubs at all? How extraordinary!"  
  
"He is probably a very busy man, Davis," Parks said in a very rebuking voice. "You should know this. You have read every issue of The Strand, I believe."  
  
Davis turned rather the colour of his sherry he was drinking and the others roared with laughter. I failed to see the joke until Parks explained. "Why, didn't you know, John? Sanford Davis is your biggest fan! Or Mr. Holmes' rather. It's all he speaks of. Knows every case by heart, don't you, old man?"  
  
"I....well..." he stammered.  
I joined in on the laughter then as well. Never had I felt more grateful for Parks. "Perhaps I can even obtain an autograph for you, my dear fellow."  
  
That only made the others laugh all the more. They were still ribbing the poor boy when I made my leave for the night. James Parks followed me.  
  
The early evening fog had lessoned somewhat, and the night was now a cold thick one. But I was warm from my meal, two glasses of brandy and a hardy round of laughter, relieved in spirit and mind enough to return to Baker Street. "I owe you an apology, old fellow," Parks said as we stood in front of the building. "I said some quite unworthy things to you earlier. I realize now I was in err."  
  
"Don't trouble yourself. I am indebted to you for what you did back there."  
  
"A trifle." He arranged his hat and tipped me farewell. "Until tomorrow, then."  
  
"James, wait a moment," I said, holding him back. "There is something I wonder if you would be good enough to do for me."  
  
"Name it and it shall be done."  
  
Smiling, I said, "I wouldn't commit yourself until you hear it. I am thinking that I need some time off. Several months, perhaps. There is too much in my life at the moment, and I am neglecting...well, I feel neglectful. I need some time to clear my mind."  
  
"A long holiday, is it?"  
  
"Something to that effect. I should be with my son right now. He has already lost his mother, and I don't want him to think that he is losing me as well. I know it is a lot to ask, but I think this influenza outbreak is fairly quelled. And I could get Merriman to give you a hand..."  
  
Parks held up his hand with a wide grin. "Take all the time you need. I can handle things until you return."  
  
"Thank you, my friend." I shook him warmly by the hand, and pulled my scarf up around my face. It was a cold walk if I couldn't catch a cab, but I was fairly warm inwardly.  
  
"I have two of the little nippers myself, Watson. I understand. You just come back a rested and relaxed man. Doctor's orders."  
  
Laughing, I told him to give my regards to Mrs. Parks, and I set off home. There was something I needed to do.  
Holmes was exactly where I had left him, exactly where I knew he would be. "Holmes?" I called, opening the door. "I wanted to apologize"-  
  
He was there alright, but in body only. The violin was upon his shoulder, and I instantly recognized Pachelbel's Canon. He must be in a strange mood because unless I was there to request something, I rarely found him to play completed works. But while I had heard this particular piece before, and found it splendid, this was something else, something...dreadful. The notes sounded like Death himself had wrapped his burning hand upon my throat. Every slow and painful rip of the bow was agony, every change in pitch was done with the most horrid of hearts. It was Canon, but some bastardised version of it. Even after surviving a war, the death of my parents, brother wife and child, I have to say that it was that moment I was filled with the most hopeless, horrid feeling of my entire life. Like slowly being submerged in water, almost being able to see the top, the safety of air, but not being able to fill my lungs with it. So affected by this playing was I, that I just stood there in the doorway, starring at him.  
  
And then I noticed the tears in his eyes.  
  
I had never seen my friend cry before. Although this was not exactly weeping, this was as close to a pinnacle of emotion that he had ever expressed. Even more so than that impromptu embrace those nights ago. He was frequently moved by music. More so than anything else, anyway. But not like this. This was pain. This was anguish that he was feeling. Whether it was inflicted by himself, or something in his mind not connected with the music, I did not know. But whatever it was, I was completely stunned.  
  
Forgetting all of my planned apology and speech telling him of my forthcoming holiday from work, all I could do was quickly close the door and beeline up to my own chamber. I never wanted to see him look like that again.  
  
-Well, I intended to bring up the case in this part, but I think I'll wait for the next update. It's coming though, I promise, as well as a whole lot more. I'll update ASAP, I promise!  
  
----------------------- [1] Matter-of-factly humorous [2] Odd or strange [3] A sort of lively argument. Isn't this a great Brit word? [4] From Aeschylus [5] Childish [6] The University of London 


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks for all the really encouraging reviews I've received! I appreciate everyone taking the time to read my fic!  
  
I lay in bed that night with nothing but the intention of sleep. My mind needed unadulterated rest more than anything. As you have already read, I am not the most energetic of fellows[1]. I prefer to abide by the first half of the old adage, 'Early to bed', (but the rest should read 'late to rise.')  
  
However, as I lay there, my body stretched out warm and comfortable, my mind was cold and rampant. I could hear Holmes below me, pacing about as restless as a cat. It was strange. Normally when not engaged on a case, he was as lethargic as a corpse, hardly moving from his chair or bed unless forced. It was only when on the trail that his thin body became enamoured with energy. He could then go days without rest and not feel the effects. If he slept at all that night, I didn't know, but I was grateful that there was no more torrid violin playing. I would not have been able to stand that. Dare I say it, but I shan't ever think the same way about him on that instrument again.  
  
Sleep at last found me sometime after the clock chimed one. Even then, it was a strange half-sleep I was subjected to, one filled with colourless images. I must not have been able to reach that truly relaxing sleep where one feels refreshed upon awakening. Instead, I was plagued with memory- like nightmares:  
  
The heat of an Afghan summer's sun boiled into my skin as I stood in a dry desert surrounded by men I thought I knew. The old 5th Northumberland Fugeleers. Smyth...Bennett...Hampstead...they were all here. I was in a make- shift surgeon's tent, trying to set the broken femur of a young private. We were all laughing at one of Patrick Bennett's jokes. Something about the Captain's bowleggedness.  
  
'Do you suppose that he keeps a cactus down his trousers?' Bennett was saying, doing a terrible interpretation.  
  
We all laughed. 'Someday you will be flogged for your insolence,' I told him.  
  
It was at that second that a terrible screeching sound filled the air, accompanied by what seemed a thousand reports[2]. The tent was ripped to thick red pieces as I felt searing fire in both my shoulder and thigh. I was flung against the ground, an action that may have saved my very life. It had happened all in the blink of an eye; the surprise rebel insurrection was over hardly before it began. All I could do was lay against the hot floor, coughing in immense pain, hardly able to keep my eyes open. Bennett lay next to me, three bullets in his chest, his entire frame drenched in his own fluids. The boy whose leg I had been setting dangled half off the table, his eyes a blank tablet staring into me. One hand flopped downward, grazing the top of my head, fingers still curling slightly, his blood dripping leisurely- droplet by droplet against my face. I thought only to get away from him...but the pain that coursed through me would not allow it.  
  
A violin began to shriek behind me, covering all sounds of the screams of the men in my brigade. It played no music. Only noise, horrid loud noise, louder and louder still...until there was a black shadow over me, a tall, slender shadow with pointed features and long jagged claws. 'Watson...'it hissed, leaning inward toward my throat. No...No...No...  
  
"No!"  
  
"Watson?"  
  
I looked up into the dark of the room. It was Holmes. I wasn't in Afghanistan at all, but here in my bed in London. My heart was beating so that I feared I may be going into coronary arrest for a second. I was so cold...and wet. Covered in a thin layer of my own sweat. A croaking sound escaped my throat, so dry and parched that I could not speak.  
  
"What ails you, doctor?" I heard him say.  
  
"Wha..."  
  
His hand was suddenly upon my shoulder. Shuddering, I moved away. Even long healed, I could feel the sting in the empty crevice of my body's wounds. And it had been he...no, it was only a dream. Wasn't it?  
  
"Are you quite alright?" His voice was concerned now. "You are ever so pale...are you ill?" Reaching to my night table, I watched him pour a little water into a glass and press it into my hand. "Should I send for a doctor?"  
  
I thought there might even be a little humour in that last statement, but I couldn't be sure. The water was lukewarm, but it released whatever demon was clawing at my throat, and I felt more awake. More alive.  
  
"No, I am fine," I managed. "I was just...it was just a dream. Nothing more." I tried to smile, to play it off. The last thing I wanted was for he to think a mere dream was enough to agitate me to this state. I was not a weak man, a coward, after all.  
  
But instead, he flashed me a sad sort of half-grin. "We all have our nightmares from time to time, doctor."  
  
"Yes. Holmes, what are you doing in my room in the middle of the night?"  
  
He laughed. "My dear chap, you must be disturbed indeed. It is now exactly a quarter past the hour of seven. And I am here to impose on you."  
  
My whole body went rigid for several seconds. I only hope that in the still dark room that my friend did not see. "Impose on me...in what way?"  
"To join me in the sitting room, of course. A client has just arrived. What did you think I meant?" The eyes narrowed suspiciously, and I swallowed a mouthful of dusty air.  
  
"Nothing...nothing at all. But a client? So early?"  
  
"Yes...and at last a case that I can sink my teeth into, if her appearance is any indication. So you must come. Into your clothes. Quick now, Watson! We mustn't keep the lady waiting!" With a fit of energy, he sprang from my bed, clapping me on the arm before disembarking downstairs.  
  
With the light of the gas, I was able to think more rationally. It was morning. It had just been a dream...or rather a memory of one, up until Sherlock Holmes appeared...appeared like Satan waiting to journey with me downward. Still, it was strange. I am not usually a man for such nonsense. In fact, it is a rare occasion when I even remember what goes on in my head whilst asleep. And now I was thankful that I did not. I would rather never close my eyes again, than relive what had just occurred.  
*  
  
I was dressed in record time, even for myself, whose Army habits have taught me speed. Grabbing a notebook, and splashing some icy water upon my eyes, I headed downstairs. I certainly hoped that the horror I had just witnessed was not evident in my appearance or demeanour.  
  
Our client was a beautiful woman, quite young, with soft hair of chestnut, a pink glow about her elfish face, and small very dark eyes framed with delicate lashes. Her dress and manner suggested wealth and refinement, but I knew enough of character to recognize the spirit in her. A humorous, adventuress streak-at times suppressed and at times allowed to roam free. I immediately thought much of her, even before she had spoken a single word. There was an aura about her that reminded me of Mary.  
  
Holmes, in typical fashion, took no notice of such delicacies, preferring instead to concentrate on the trivialities. What these were I couldn't say yet, but no doubt he was forming facts about her entire past and present from a glove or a boot or a freckle on her nose. Hadn't he said up in my chamber something about her appearance already? I couldn't be certain. But to him the trifles were the spice of life.  
  
"Miss...Bishop," said he, after a glance at the calling card.  
  
"Yes," said she, her voice one of intelligence beyond her age and sex. "And you are Mr. Sherlock Holmes, are you not?"  
  
"Indeed. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson."  
  
She turned a gentle smile onto me. "I have read your accounts of Mr. Holmes' cases in The Strand. It is that which convinced me to consult the two of you."  
  
Holmes had settled himself into his wicker-backed armchair with his favourite pipe, the calabash, no doubt ignoring the comment. It was always clear to me that he took no pride in my writings of him, despite their popularity. He did not go in for the romanticism and fantastic elements I occasionally included, although even he could not deny how recognizable he had become because of them. "If you would be so kind as to convey the reason you find you find yourself at Baker Street this early morning?"  
  
I turned a reproachful gaze on my friend, but if Miss Bishop took offence at his rudeness, she didn't show it. "Certainly, Mr. Holmes. The reason I sought you out is because my father was stabbed to death Tuesday as he slept and the police are getting no where with it."  
  
"Good Heavens...your father was murdered?"  
  
"I am afraid so, Dr. Watson."  
  
"You have my most sincere sympathies, Miss Bishop."  
  
"That's very kind of you," she said with the slightest hint of smile. "I have had four days now to absorb the shock however. I can speak clearly and frankly, I assure you, if you are concerned about my emotional state."  
  
"Excellent," Holmes said. "Then please, from the beginning. And prey, be exact and detailed as possible."  
  
"Perhaps Miss Bishop would care for a cup of tea first, Holmes." He saw the glare on my face, and sighing, slunk back into his chair. He turned questioningly toward our client.  
  
"Yes, I would appreciate it, in fact. If it is not too much trouble. I did have a rather early morning, as is evident."  
  
"Oh, it is no trouble," Holmes said. "Mrs. Hudson!"  
  
"Holmes!" I said. "Must you shout so? Josh is still asleep and unless you want him in here asking thousands of questions, I would prefer him to remain so."  
  
I knew that he did not like to hear this. If there was one thing he disliked more than anything, it was to be told what to do. This was something he didn't even stand from me. Second on that list of pitfalls was to change his habits without good reason. And shouting at Mrs. Hudson was one habit that he has had since the day he met her, bless her heart.  
  
"My apologies," he said, re-lighting his pipe. His teeth probably would leave permanent marks on it. "I forgot the boy."  
  
"If you don't mind me asking," Miss Bishop said. "Who is Josh?"  
  
"My son. He is but three and a terrible curiosity. Worse here than even Holmes."  
  
She laughed softly, just like Mary. "I didn't know that you had any children, Dr. Watson. He has not appeared in any of your cases."  
  
While we waited for our tea, I explained to her about my late wife and Holmes' re-appearance. I left out all the necessary parts, of course, such as my outrage at his deceiving me in the matter of his 'death', and ended with my moving back here to assist him. If she thought this strange, it didn't show on her face. As Mrs. Hudson was fond of saying, she was a genuine lady.  
  
Holmes put up with this tete-a-tete for as long as his mind would allow him to, which was not long. When Mrs. Hudson arrived with our tea, he threw his penetrating look toward her and said, "Now, if neither of you mind, I would like to return our attention to the case of your deceased father, Miss Bishop. That is why you are here, and it is dreadfully early."  
  
"Yes, Mr. Holmes, you see"-  
  
"The hour apparently is not unusual for you, however, as I see that you are an early riser. Very early, as it is at least a two-hour train ride from Dartmoor or Exmoor, whichever of these it is that you are from."  
  
"However did you"-  
  
"You live in a large estate no doubt, on which you do a great deal of walking in the outdoors. Your family keeps horses and you are an avid equestrian. You must care for horses a great deal, Miss Bishop, to drive your own team. Only a skilled lady of your obvious class would undertake such a thing. And it is clear that the death of your unfortunate parent is not the only thing preying on your mind. There is much perturbing it of late."  
  
She laughed again, as most clients do when Holmes is finished summing them up. "It is quite amazing. To read of this skill, Mr. Holmes, to read of it being used on others is in itself a grand thing. But to actually witness it being used on myself, it is ever so incredible."  
  
"It is nothing of the kind," he said with his usual amount of forged modesty. "A few small deductions that even the doctor could make."  
  
"'Thank' you Holmes."  
  
He did not catch the sarcasm in this, I guarantee it, as he continued. "It is easy to tell that you are from a region south and west of here by the remains of mud upon the heel of your boot. It is a thick, country mud not found except in wet moorish-regions such as Dartmoor or Exmoor. The fact that your boots are worn along the outer seam and of course the tan of the back of the neck suggests that you walk a great deal outside. The circles under your eyes tell me that much has been troubling you lately, much later in date than just these last four days, I should think. And as far as the horses are concerned, what else could be indicated by the hunching of the spine except a great deal of time on a horse or spinning. And a lady of your class, Miss Bishop, does not spend her hours in front of a loom."  
  
"But how did you know that she drives her own team?" I was compelled to ask.  
  
"Her gloves," he said, with a wave of the pipe. "Are creased with a slight blackening in the palm. It is the exact sort of mark that the reigns of a team would create."  
  
"And the fact that I am an early riser you knew from the fact that I am here now, Mr. Holmes?"  
  
"My dear Miss Bishop...that is an ineffectual assumption. It is much more along the lines that you are immaculately dressed that suggests that you, like most young ladies your age, care a great deal for your appearance and that you take some time with regards to your toilet in the morning. However, your boots, madam, are haphazardly buttoned. This suggests to me that you were dressed this morning quite early, all except for your boots. No doubt something propelled you to London as fast as possible, and therefore you did not take the time you usually would in buttoning them properly."  
  
"Astonishing, Mr. Holmes."  
  
"No, Miss Bishop...logic. And now, if you would, please tell me what exactly it was that forced you to leave for London so early that you have neglected your boots as it is? If your father has been dead for four days now, as you said, than certainly you thought not to hurry in consulting me."  
  
She looked down into her cup of tea as if carefully considering her words. I really wished that Holmes could learn to be a little gentler when dealing with ladies. It was a queer thing. There were times he was positively charming around them, times when I thought that any young lady should consider herself lucky to have him as a husband. However, there were other times when he was so forceful...so nearly un-gentlemanly. I shouldn't think I shall ever fully understand the man. "The reason, Mr. Holmes," she said in a quiet voice, "is that Inspector Clayton, who is investigating the case of my father's murder, arrived very early this morning. He informed me that he was placing Thomas Kingston under arrest for this murder, as he now found it fit that Mr. Kingston may have had motive to want Father dead. And so I took the earliest train available from the Dartmoor station to London."  
  
"And this Thomas Kingston is whom?"  
  
I could detect the slight reddening of her flawless porcelain skin as she answered. "He is our groom. He has been with the family since the age of ten, some eleven years now. His mother was dead and his father was a drunk who beat him. Mother had a soft heart in those days, and took him in. He is wonderful with the horses. He and I...well, we are quite close."  
  
"Indeed. You love him, do you not?" He dipped his pipe into the slipper to refill it for the third time. I wondered at how the man could manage so much tobacco on an empty stomach.  
  
"I...yes, Mr. Holmes. I do. It will do nothing to conceal the fact from you. I have been in love with Tom since I was quite a young girl, and he with me. We planned on marrying this summer. That is, until this ugly situation reared its head. Oh, Mr. Holmes, you must help him!" She cried with some feeling, some feeling that instantly released any attachment in my own heart. It was quite obvious that this young lady was already spoken for, and spoken for very well. "If only you knew him. You would see that he is quite incapable of such a thing. Tom could no more commit murder than I. He has seen so much anger and hurt in his short life that I know he would never succumb to violence! I know it Mr. Holmes, but Inspector Clayton is such a pig-headed, stubborn man that he has already made-up his mind!"  
  
"Calm yourself, Miss Bishop..."Holmes said gently, holding up a re-assuring hand. "I will do what I can. But you must remain calm. Leave your Mr. Kingston out of the picture for the minute. I am quite more interested in your Mother and Father. You must take a deep breath of air, and tell me the beginning of this story."  
  
Miss Bishop nodded, taking an unsteady sip of tea with a grateful look to my friend. A look that he never saw a woman give. And then she spoke. "My mother is the daughter of the Earl of Cantor, whose people have inhabited the east of Dartmoor for generations. We may, in fact, be distant relatives of the Baskervilles through whom I first read of you, Mr. Holmes."  
  
"Hm! I certainly hope this case is significantly less messy," Holmes interrupted.  
  
"Come now, old boy. It was the Hound more than any case you have solved that propelled your name throughout the public. It was a fascinating business."  
  
"It was fascinatingly messy, more dramatic and sensational than the majority of your published works, Watson, which is the only reason you trumpet it. The case, the mystery, was actually simplistic. And now, do not interrupt Miss Bishop again. Prey continue."  
  
It was times such as these that I would love to throttle my friend. Only he would possess the audacity to suggest I had interrupted our client. He is also the only man I would let get away with it. Even in the company of a lady.  
  
"My father-Bruce Bishop"-she supplied after no more than a glance from Holmes-"was a merchant fisherman before he met my mother. He is not a man made for dry land, Mr. Holmes. I realize this now, but he and Mother fells so passionately in love that both thought they could overcome this obstacle. As well as the fact that my maternal grandparents were opposed to the match. She was not a son (and in fact they had no male children) and even only a second daughter, but the fact remained that she was still the daughter of an Earl. And wanting to marry nothing more than a labourer."  
  
"So they eloped." Holmes stated.  
  
"Yes. And so furious was my grandfather than when he found out he banished her to live with the new husband in a small cottage...well, small compared to the estate she had grown up in. It was only after Grandmother died, just a few years later, that he changed his mind, realizing the importance of family. He offered the couple Hilton Grange, one of several family homes, for their own. I was a child of six at the time, my brother, Richard, only one. I should tell you that my brother and I are the only children of my parents. Three pregnancies ended in still-birth before I and another between Dicky and myself. This played heavily on my mother, I can assure you."  
  
"I'm sure that it did," I found myself saying, not being able to hold the sentiment back. I had the horrid experience of one stillborn child. And I was a man. I could not imagine how much worse it would be to be a woman and to lose four children at birth after carrying them nine long months. I glanced sideways through the smoke of my cigarette at my friend, expecting a rebuking look. But there was none. If anything, he was lost in a brown study[3] silently puffing out little clouds of smoke.  
  
Miss Bishop continued-"My father was not satisfied with his new life as master of such a large estate. Black Bishop-that is what Mother re- christened Hilton Grange because of the black agate stone used in its construction-quickly became a respected homestead on Dartmoor. But with the exception of our horses, there was nothing to distract Father from his longing for the sea life. And so, he purchased for himself a small fishing vessel that he kept anchored just off of Plymouth. He would take it out, sometimes for as long as two weeks at a time. Mother didn't like it, but it was the only point of disagreement between them, so she didn't raise the issue. However, one day-it was March of '88, nearly six years ago, when Father set out aboard the Catherine and was simply never seen again."  
  
"What?" I said without meaning to. "But I don't understand. If your Father disappeared some six years ago-how came it that he was murdered four days past?"  
  
"Oh...you see, Dr. Watson, what I should have said was Father disappeared six years ago, only to magically return just three weeks ago. Much like you told me of Mr. Holmes here. Everyone thought him to be dead. Lost on his ship, or something. But then three weeks ago, he returned, perfectly alive after all! My brother and I, and everyone who knew him, were shocked beyond words."  
  
Holmes' eyes popped open immediately. Had he been a machine he would not have managed it more exactly from the second our client's mouth closed. "No, no, no," said he. "That will not do, Miss Bishop. If what you say is a fact and your father seemingly reappeared from beyond the grave than you must tell me exactly what occurred. Pray leave nothing out."  
  
She nodded. "Well, the first thing I should tell you is that my mother has been ill for quite some time. She contracted consumption nearly a decade ago, and is now, as the doctor tells me, not long on this world. I do not say this to ask for your pity gentleman, but more because I fear you may think it the reason my father returned so suddenly."  
  
"To see your mother before she passed on?" I asked.  
  
"Not exactly," she said, with a sad shake of her glistening head. "But more along the lines that my father is still named in the only will my mother ever made as the soul heir to the Hilton fortune left to her by my Grandfather when he died just short of seven years ago. You see, Mother never stopped loving my Father, even after everyone told her that she must accept his death. But she refused. She even refused to change her will. She was convinced that he would return one day. Up until three weeks ago, I thought this to be mere fancy on her part, maybe even relating to the unnatural state of her nerves do to illness...but now, it appears that she was right."  
  
"Why, this is quite fascinating," I mumbled, absent-mindedly lighting a cigarette. "I have never heard of such a thing, have you, Holmes?"  
  
"Never...now, you say, Miss Bishop, that you fear the reason your Father returned is because he had somehow gotten word that if he did so, he would inherit Black Bishop upon your mother's death, as well as a large amount of money left from the estate of your late Grandfather?"  
  
"Yes. My mother's elder sister died unmarried, and so Richard and I are the only Hilton heir's left. But despite the fact that I am of age, Mother never altered the will, save a few small allowances so as not to leave my brother and I destitute. Father would have inherited nearly all..."she paused then, flushing slightly in the face, as if not wanting to continue. "I know this may look as though I myself am guilty. If Father had been really dead, than I would in fact be the benefactor by reason of default. But I assure you, neither I nor Tom had anything..."  
  
"Oh, we would never think such a thing, Miss Bishop!" I cried uncontrollably. "Would we, Holmes?"  
  
"Hmm?" He asked, having been peering into the fire unmoving. "Oh...I think not...Miss Bishop, there is just one last thing I should need to know, and then I think, you may very well return to your Black Bishop. I should need the details of your Father's return conveyed to me as exactly as you remember them. It could prove to be the catalyst for this case."  
  
"Of course Mr. Holmes...I recall them very well in my mind. You do not forget such a day as that. It was a Sunday, exactly three weeks ago tomorrow, and Richard and I had been attending chapel in the village of Darby, nearest to Black Bishop. It is a drive of nearly an hour, but after Father's disappearance, Mother became quite enamoured with her faith suddenly, and ever since we have attended every Sunday. Even after she herself became too ill, my brother and I continued without her. As soon as services had finished, I had stepped out to call to attend to our carriage. Dicky was still inside. There was a man standing by my team, I man I nearly instantly recognized, despite the passage of time. 'Lizzie, my girl,' he said, and then I knew for certain. 'Father!' I cried. 'Father, you have come home!'"  
  
"And then what?"  
  
"Well, we were all so thrilled...the entire household. Mother was...well, I don't think she really understood what was going on. She was almost catatonic by then. She will only allow Richard and her private physician to see her. Dicky and she were always quite close."  
  
"What explanation did your father offer for his strange disappearance and miraculous return?"  
  
Miss Bishop frowned. "Never a satisfactory one, I am afraid. Only that he missed his life on the sea too much. He was so ashamed that he abandoned us that he could not even muster the courage to write and say he was alive. He thought it better that we believe him dead, rather than a deserter of his family. But he was adamant about one thing Mr. Holmes...he knew nothing of the my Mother's will, even after Mr. Bullard informed him...and his return was because he needed to make his peace with us. He said that he couldn't go to his grave with this on his conscience. Oh, I truly believe he is repentant, Mr. Holmes! I know that the money could not have been the reason for his return! It just couldn't be! If for no other reason than the fact that he could not have known Mother never re-wrote her will!"  
  
"Just a moment...you spoke just now of a Mr. Bullard, was it? Who is this?"  
  
"Mr. Ambrose Bullard," she said. "Father's best friend and our family's personal solicitor for many years. He has been very kind to us over the years. He took care of all the legal and financial matters of Black Bishop after Father left."  
  
"I see. One last question, Miss Bishop. Who was present the night your unfortunate father met his end?"  
  
"Well...I, of course, and Richard. Mr. Kingston was out in the stable loft were he lived. Mrs. Oliver, our cook. Jane Merriweather and Anne Duncan, our housemaids. And Mr. Bullard was there as well."  
  
"Mr. Bullard?"  
  
"Yes. He occasionally stayed the night after Father returned. The two had much business to attend to, as you might imagine."  
  
"Of course...although that seems to be very singular..." Holmes mumbled almost to himself before jumping to his feet and making his way to the door, which he held open. "That will do for now, Miss Bishop. I have a few things to attend to here in London, but if at all convenient, I should like to see the scene of the crime today. Tell me, has your father's body already been buried?"  
  
"Why, no. The funeral is scheduled for tomorrow at the church in Darby. The very church we first met at these weeks ago, no less."  
  
"Excellent! That is very fortunate, indeed! I believe there is a train that arrives at the Dartmoor station a little after five this evening. What it be possible for you to meet the doctor and I there?"  
  
"Well...yes, I think so. But Mr. Holmes, I have not yet told you all yet. For instance, the nature of the murder. It is not something I much like to explain, but surely it is of some..."  
  
"No, no," Holmes said, waving a hand. "That I would prefer to see with my own eyes and draw my own conclusions. There is more than enough inference here and now as it is. The main facts that you can provide second-hand are all-in and stored safely. What remains must be seen by my own eyes."  
  
It was at that exact second that my son appeared in nothing but his nightshirt, hair rumpled every which way, and eyes still glazed with sleep. He held on to the bottom of the railing with both hands, carefully making his way down one stair at a time. I have to admit, his timing was terrible. Five more minutes and Miss Bishop could have been safely out of the house and I would not have to deal with the endless questions that were sure to come out.  
  
He took one look at the lady and every inch of shyness that usually accompanied him was washed away. "Who are you?" He asked bluntly.  
  
"Why, I am Elizabeth Bishop. A client of Mr. Holmes. And you must be Josh Watson."  
  
"Yes. Do you have a case?"  
  
She smiled. "You are a very perceptive young man. Indeed I do have a case. Mr. Holmes is going to look into it for me."  
  
"Can I help, Uncle?"  
  
Holmes looked at me, trying desperately hard not to smile. I found the matter significantly less amusing. "No, indeed, Josh. Miss Bishop has to return to her home, and you must have breakfast. You and your... 'uncle' can play detective some other time."  
  
"It was nice to meet you, Josh," Miss Bishop said, patting his cheek. "I hope that we meet again, some time."  
  
He was pouting now, his short arms folded against his small chest. But his anger was directed at me, and not the lady. "I hope so too. I want to see your horses."  
  
I felt my entire body stiffen. I was very glad that I was not on the stairs at the time, for I feared had I, I may have had quite a fall. Miss Bishop stopped dead in her tracks, and even Holmes looked knocked for six. "How..." I began, but words utterly failed me. "How did you know...it's not possible."  
  
"Know what, Papa?" He asked.  
  
"John Sherlock Watson, were you listening in on our conversation just now with Miss Bishop?"  
  
He shrunk several inches in fear. The use of his full name was enough for him to see how upset I was. "No, Papa. I didn't. I just 'waked up. I promise."  
  
"Don't lie to me, boy! There is no earthly reason that you could have known about her horses unless you did!"  
  
"I'm not lying!" He said, as the first big tear drops blurred the blue eyes and found their way down his cheeks. "It was her glove. That was how I knew! I didn't hear nothing I shouldn'ta!  
  
"Her...glove..." It occurred to me then that her glove, or rather the fresh marks upon them from the reigns had allowed Holmes to conjecture she drove her own team. But surely...no, it couldn't be. A three-year old simply could not have made that connection. It wasn't possible... "What about her glove?"  
  
He was almost afraid to answer now, but the stubborn streak in him won out. "She has marks on her glove. It's from horse-things. The ropes."  
  
"The reigns, John Sherlock, the reigns," Holmes corrected.  
  
"Yes. The reigns."  
  
I was utterly taken aback. "But how could you have possibly know that?" I asked, shaking my head.  
  
"I don't know. I just did. That's all, Papa."  
  
"It is really is quite remarkable, Dr. Watson," Miss Bishop said. "Such a small boy...why, I would have thought him 'your' son, Mr. Holmes! He seems to have your great gift of observation."  
  
My teeth immediately clamped down, an instinct that may have saved me great embarrassment. Holmes smiled, a little too widely at that, but did not have the courage to look at me after that statement. He enjoyed it immensely, though, I can assure you. "If we judged by early indications, we should all be geniuses[4], Miss Bishop. We can but hope this is not the case. If you wouldn't mind, I shall escort you out." He motioned toward the staircase and the two left, left before I could say something I may grow to regret. Only Josh remained oblivious, still standing in his rumpled nightshirt, eyes pink with crying, looking nothing like the genius he was sure to become.  
  
"I'm sorry, Papa," he said, sniffling. "I won't never make adductions again, I promise! I didn't know that it would make you upset."  
  
"I...oh, Joshie, I'm not upset with you," I picked him up, enjoying the warmth he radiated against my cold face. "Someday you will understand how hard it is to be a mere mortal living among the Gods."  
  
I know this seems an odd place to stop, but so much was happening in this part, that I didn't want to bog you down. Sorry there's so much dialogue, but it's still the best way to get Holmes and Watson on the case...please review. Thanks! ----------------------- [1] Watson says in STUD that he is 'notoriously lazy,' although I really don't see him living up to this. [2] The explosive noise of a rifle [3] A state of deep thought. [4] Similar to a quote by Goethe, "If children grew up according to early indications, we should have nothing but Geniuses." 


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks to everyone who reviewed! I'm finally up-dating! Truthfully, I'm dying to get through the case to the end. Do you know how hard it is to hold that in-not to mention what happens afterward...but 'ahem' I'm getting ahead of myself. Enjoy!  
  
Holmes was still downstairs with Elizabeth Bishop as Mrs. Hudson came into the sitting room carrying our breakfast tray. The plate of still sizzling bangers and fluffy scrambled eggs was sufficient enough to distract me from my annoyance at the _observations_ of Josh. The more time Holmes and the boy spent together the more it seemed everyone was going to think him his son. I realize it shouldn't bother me. It wasn't true, after all. And yet...  
  
"Oh, Dr. Watson," Mrs. Hudson interrupted my train of thought. "You don't know how glad I am that Mr. Holmes has this new case."  
  
"Really? And why is that?"  
  
"Well, sir," she said with a frown. "I know it is none of my business. But surely you have seen him of late. He could really use this distraction, I feel. He is so...worrisome when he gets depressed from lack of work."  
  
I found myself starring into her delicate, weather-worn face. The silvery hair in a thick bun, the wrinkled brow, the gentian eyes. For some selfish reason, it never occurred to me that Mrs. Hudson may have concerns about my friend's well-being. I had known that she was nearly giddy upon seeing him appear out of the depths one early morning. But I never thought her aware, much less concerned, about his recent change of attitude. One minute upbeat and saying things like 'life is too short for black moods' and the next playing heartbreaking melodies on his violin and practically breaking down. I didn't understand it.  
  
"You needn't worry," I told her. "You know Mr. Holmes. He just goes through these...spurts. Of being down in the dumps, I mean. There is no cause for worry." Okay. I shall admit it. Even to me the words sounded trite.  
  
"I hope not, sir. I certainly hope not."  
  
As I picked up my coffee cup in an attempt to get my mind away from Holmes for a change, I was aware out of the corner of my eye of Josh's face sticky with porridge, staring at me. Before I became a father, I never would have imagined that I was capable of producing a child that was so observant. Where did he get this gift from? "Has Mr. Holmes spoken to you, Josh, of being upset about anything?"  
  
Josh stuck his lip out, not out of obstinacy, but rather characteristic of how he thought deeply. "He doesn't like to talk about things like that, Papa. Things like being sad."  
  
"Don't I know it," I replied, reaching for the morning _Times_.  
  
"Except"-  
  
My gaze flew back. "Except what?"  
  
"Well," he stalled, playing with his breakfast. "I was cooking with Mrs. Hudson in the downstairs. But then I came back up here. Uncle was reading something. He looked...," his eyes met mine, "like you did when Mummy died."  
  
"Er...do you mean he was...what do you mean, son?"  
  
He shrugged and tried to pour some porridge in his mouth. Most of it ended up on his bib. Now I know why children are supposed to eat in the nursery until they are nine or ten. "Dunno, Papa. Just really sad. He closed the book really fastly when he saw me, and wouldn't tell me what it was. That was it."  
  
"Do you recall what book it was?"  
  
He shook his head. "It was red and fat. That's all I 'member."  
  
It was at that moment the sitting room door flew open and Holmes came rushing in, flinging himself into an empty chair at the table. He was one for dramatic entrances, as you no doubt are aware by now, dear reader. "This case!" He exclaimed. "This case is muddled and horrific! I hardly can think of where the starting point is. What thoughts have you, Watson?"  
  
"I think that I shall finish my breakfast. What thoughts have you?"  
  
He snorted, glaring at me and shoved away the covered plate in front of him. "I think that before we head to Black Bishop we shall have to pay an unannounced visit on this solicitor, Ambrose Bullard. According to our client he retains an office here in the City. There are answers that he can provide me with that Miss Bishop cannot."  
  
"What's Black Bishop?" asked Josh.  
  
"It is where Elizabeth Bishop lives. Mr. Holmes and I are to go there today to help her with her case."  
  
His eyes lit up. "Can I come?"  
  
"It is 'may' I come, and no, you may not."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Because you are a child and you must do as I say. If you want to become an...uh, _unofficial_ _consulting_ _detective_ than you will have to wait until you come of age. For now, you will stay here with Mrs. Hudson and play with your toys and take a nap and do the things that normal three year-old children do."  
  
"A very thorough explanation, doctor," Holmes remarked with a smile.  
  
"I'll thank you, Holmes, if you wouldn't mind being on my side in this."  
  
"But I am, I am! My dear John Sherlock, your father is correct. There is so much that you must learn before you can even contemplate field work!"  
  
I let out a deep, pathetic groan. That was what he considered 'on my side'?  
  
"But Uncle"- the boy whined. "That's not...um, _logical_. I could be better at adducing things if I started now! Make Papa let me come with you! _You_ would let me!"  
  
For at least the third time in as many days, I was at the point of letting my suspicions, my confusion and most of all my anger get the better of me. Without even realizing I was doing it, I slammed my fist hard against the table, rattling the silverware. "Stop it!" I exclaimed. "Josh, that is quite enough out of you! I have already told you that you are not coming with us! And there will be no more arguments, boy, do you understand?"  
  
His eyes teared up. "Yes, sir," he said in a whisper.  
  
"I do think you were a bit harsh," Holmes said as we climbed into a cab, heading toward Bullard's office.  
  
I could have laughed at that. It was a line I had used more than once to him in the past to describe how he treated people. Even Elizabeth Bishop this very morning. "Holmes, you must understand," said I, "It is up to me to see that Josh is raised properly"-  
  
"And not like me."  
  
"I didn't say that!"  
  
He smiled again, but this time it was far more wistful and long-lasting than his normal whip-fast grin. "Didn't you?"  
  
"No, I did not-oh, for Heaven's sake, man, we have enough to concern ourselves-you this case, and me, any number of things. Let's just drop this for now. What say you?"  
  
He thumped the roof of the carriage with his stick, and pounced out of the door hardly before the horse had ceased clip-clopping. Chucking the fare at the driver, he turned to me. "You are right, Watson. John Sherlock is your child. You must do with him as you see fit. And as for now-you are also correct. This case requires my full attention. And your pen and book. We would do right if we concentrated on the facts and not on all these familial suppositions."  
  
He turned and flew into the building without waiting for me to reply. Which was, no doubt, a thankful thing, because all I could do was stand there in the growing traffic of morning London and sigh and shake my head. He either didn't understand or was choosing not to. But what could I do? I didn't understand it myself.  
  
Mr. Ambrose Bullard's place of business was in Kensington and he must have been at least fairly successful as a solicitor, as his was a private and spacious office, littered with expensive works of art of the last century and Elizabethan furniture. Indeed, it was more like a museum than anything else, and I briefly wondered as to how he could afford it all.  
  
I had thought that perhaps he wouldn't see us, as we had no appointment and I doubted Elizabeth Bishop had alerted him to our presence. However, a porter showed us straight in and there was no objection whatever.  
  
"Come in, come in, gentlemen," said he, motioning to some chairs. "And please sit. If you are here as friends of Elizabeth Bishop, than you are certainly my friends as well."  
  
Bullard was a large man, particularly around the face and middle, just past his prime, I would guess. His head was most notable for its lack of hair and a heavy thick handlebar moustache. His eyes suggested him educated and of good humour, his natty silk and velvet lined suit suggested some prominence, as was evident by his office. All in all, he seemed a normal upper-class gentleman whose word should count for something. But then I suppose I should leave these conjectures to my friend, whose brain no doubt detected much more.  
  
"I shall be brief, Mr. Bullard," said Holmes, settling into a leather armchair and lighting a cigarette without asking permission. "As no doubt your time is as valuable to you as my own to me. I am Sherlock Holmes, and I have been hired by Miss Elizabeth Bishop to solve the murder of her late father. Oh-this is my colleague-Dr. Watson."  
  
In situations such as these I am often at a loss as to whom I should study- Holmes or the person he is questioning. Both exhibit fascinating reactions, often to the most innocent of questions or responses. However, at this time, I had happened to be staring at Mr. Bullard sitting casually behind his desk, fat fingers folded on its surface. His response to my friend's introduction was one of the queerest I have ever witnessed. His face instantly drained of all colour, and those pale eyes which I had given him credit for intelligence became as engorged as melons. A strange noise escaped the back of his throat. I really thought that for a moment he may be having a fit, or coronary failure, or some such thing, as I actually rose to my feet to assist him. Holmes' hand, however, shot out and seized my arm, stopping me. I wasn't sure if it was the fact that he was investigating Bruce Bishop's death, or simply the reputation that preceded the very mention of the name Sherlock Holmes that elicited this response.  
  
"Whatever is wrong, Mr. Bullard?" he asked, the suspicion obvious.  
  
"Er...." Bullard turned his gaze onto my friend, the colour slowly flushing his face back to bright red. "I...you'll have to excuse me, gentlemen. I just found...well, I thought Lizzie...Miss Bishop...had accepted the fact that young Tom Kingston had done this thing."  
  
"Even you believe Kingston guilty, then?" asked I.  
  
"Well, I didn't _want_ to believe it. I have been close to the Bishop family for many years, as Elizabeth no doubt told you. Kingston was always in my opinion, a model worker, kind-hearted, polite...chivalrous even. However, this man, Clayton, I believe, has arrested him. And if he has done so than surely there must be reason for it."  
  
"Yes. Of course." From the tone of his voice, I knew Holmes didn't believe him. Perhaps what he had said earlier was indeed on the money. This man was very singular. "And now if you don't mind, Mr. Bullard, how came you to be involved with the Bishop family?"  
  
"Well, Mr. Holmes...I have known Bruce Bishop my entire life. Our fathers' were friends since boyhood, you see, despite the fact that his was a merchant fisherman and my own a prominent solicitor. Both of their sons followed in their career paths. As our fathers grew up, they stayed in touch and Bruce and I met when we were both still quite young. He is...was my dearest friend. And even after the whole world thought him dead, I stayed close to Catherine, er...Lady Hilton-Bishop, and the children. I thought it my duty as Bruce's friend to care for them. Neither he nor I had a brother and we thought it not out of line to consider the other so."  
  
"It seems to me," said Holmes with narrowed eyes, "a queer thing that as his brother, Bishop never alerted even you to the fact that he was still living. Wouldn't you agree?"  
  
"But he did not, sir!" Bullard expostulated. "Only Bruce knows as to the reason why. Nevertheless I can assure you, this whole...situation is as grotesque and confusing to myself as to you."  
  
"And you never inquired as to the reason why he returned? Of left for that matter?"  
  
Bullard began to squirm in his seat, the look of him suggesting that he wished to renege on his invitation. "I tell you this, gentlemen, because I am certain that I can count on your honour not to let it leave this room. I would be most uncomfortable if it were to spread to either of the Bishop children."  
  
"You can rely on my word," replied Holmes. "And that of Dr. Watson as well."  
  
"Well," he said, leaning nearer. "It should be known that Bruce was a good man-a good man in every respect who truly did love his wife and children. However, there was something he loved even more. And that was his freedom. When he met Catherine, he thought that their love would be enough to carry him through the pain of losing this freedom. But in the end it was not. His love of the sea and a life that did not involve answering to anyone won out. Now, I hope you shall understand that I shan't wish Lizzie and Dicky to know this. They have been put through much, and I don't wish them to think that they father abandoned them for some sinister reason. In truth, he cared much for the both of them."  
  
"But his sudden return? Are you to tell me it was merely a coincidence that he returned at the most profitable moment possible-as it is that if he had not met this untimely end he would have inherited the entire Hilton estate in the very near future?"  
  
"Bruce would not talk on it," Bullard insisted. "But there really is no way he could have known the state of Lady Catherine's will. Surely it must be a coincidence, mustn't it, Mr. Holmes?"  
  
"Mr. Holmes does not believe in coincidence," said I.  
  
Holmes glanced at me in such a way that I knew I had misspoken. "But what other explanation is there?" the solicitor asked.  
  
"We shall see. All in good time, I should think. Just one last question, Mr. Bullard-if Bishop left with no one's knowledge, and that isolationism was retained throughout the six years, than how do you suppose he had the means to live for so long?"  
  
"Oh, well...that is easy enough to answer. When Bruce's father died-some ten years ago, I think, he left his only child with a little money. Not a lot, but Bruce had few caprices. Even as master of Black Bishop he was a simple man. I handled the will, and I think that the amount would have sufficed for my friend to live on for a good many years."  
  
Holmes perked up with this knowledge. "Have you a copy of this will?"  
  
"Well...somewhere I think. I should have to do some digging. Is it necessary that you see it?"  
  
"Oh, no, no...I'm sure it is nothing." He sprang to his feet. "That will do for now, Mr. Bullard. I trust you will be available should any more questions arise?"  
  
"Oh, of course, Mr. Holmes. Either here or at Black Bishop." He stuck out his hand.  
  
Holmes barely gave the man a second glance, but rather he gave a quick tug of my sleeve and pounced toward the door. "Then I wish you a good-day. Come, Watson, we have a train to catch!"  
  
It was a three-hour journey from Charring Cross to the Dartmoor Station, and I must admit I was precarious about sitting in that compartment for so long...alone with Holmes. It is a thought that never would have entered my mind in the past. We would have sat in a wrapt of silence: me lost in a newspaper, or perhaps the passing countryside, he lost in the world of his own making-a world even I wasn't privy to. But that never bothered me. Two men who spent as much time together as we did shouldn't need to rely on small-talk, and we did not. But this was different. Different because of all that had happened. My conversation with Parks...my horrid dream...Holmes on the violin. Lord above, how could I stand it all? And this extraordinary case on top of it?  
  
And then there was the fact that I had barely seen the man these last weeks. He had spent far more time with Josh than I, and I think that, above all, was the most confusing. It was bothering me far more than it should. Did I, deep down, fear that what Parks has told me about Holmes register in my mind as possibly true after all? Or was it that I couldn't get the sight of those two little chubby hands stained yellow and red, out of my mind. I cared for Holmes deeply, but he was, and should be, an isolated phenomenon. I did not want my son growing up with some of his views on the world. He was _my_ son. _My_ protégé...  
  
"Holmes," I began as the train picked up speed, charging east and south at full steam. "I know that we have just heard much on this case, and that you require silence to regurgitate this muddle of information, but there really is something I hoped to discuss with you, and now that we are alone..."  
  
His eyes opened, glazing with irritation. "What is it?"  
  
"Now, I don't wish you to think me ungrateful, but...well," my mouth closed. I couldn't tell him. The sight of him sitting there, that arrogant exasperation that I tolerated so much better than most would, well...I was still concerned about this whole situation. This odd showing of emotion that surrounded my friend since his return. My mind, not to mention my nerves, couldn't stand the strain of another row with him. So all I could say was, "I...uh, I'm thinking of taking some months off. From my practice, that is. I have already discussed it with James Parks and he agreed to cover for me."  
  
"And you reasoned this would leave me feeling ungrateful to you in what way?" His eyes narrowed suspiciously, no doubt reading me better than I could myself.  
  
"Well...that's not exactly what I meant." Clearing my throat, I wished that I were not trapped here with him. I looked out the window, pretending to take an interest in the quickly approaching moor.  
  
Holmes eyes closed once again and his chin dropped to his chest. For several moments, he did not speak. Then suddenly, as if experiencing a rapture of mental energy, he sprang back to life. "It really is a good idea, you know."  
  
"Huh? What is?"  
  
"To sell your practice, my boy! It just so happens that I know a fellow who is looking to purchase a fairly well-to-do and established practice. From the sound of it, he seemed willing to pay more than fairly."  
  
He seemed so serious that I was certain he must be out of his mind. "Are you mad?" I was compelled to ask. "I cannot sell my practice! How do you expect me to live? Certainly not off my wound pension. That would barely keep the roof of Baker Street above my head! And what about James Parks? Do you expect me just to throw him to the curb after all he has done for me?"  
  
I recognized the queer penetrating glow of that colourless face, as well as the firm set jaw, the wringing fingers, twitchy expression...it was a familiar look. The look of finality. To him, I had already agreed because he could not see any flaw in his reasoning. "My dear chap," the argument began. "It is absurdly simple. The fact that I am spending so much time with young John Sherlock is preying on your mind. Now, now, it will do little good to deny it! Do you consider me so naïve that I am not cognizant of the gossip surrounding us? Come now, Watson."  
  
"I hold little water with idle chit-chat. They may say what they like...and if it amuses me, I shall sue for slander. But this all has nothing to do with me selling my practice. You have not even begun to convince me that it is the..._logical_ conclusion."  
  
I was rewarded with a half-smile. Leaning forward, he closed his fingertips in front of his face, glowing with the anticipation of convincing me. "It is clear to me," he said, "that your main argument is that you cannot afford to live without the profit of your practice, correct?"  
  
"I suppose, but"-  
  
"Well, then, that problem is easily remedied! You sell your practice and make yourself available to accompany me whenever I need you, keeping records of the cases of course, and I will supply you with half the fees I collect from our clients."  
  
The thing that surprised me most, and believe me nearly every word of that statement put a sharp breath of air into my lungs, was that he said our clients. No, that couldn't be right. They were his clients. He was the only official consulting detective. The master. I was just James Boswell[1]. Dr. John Watson, the biographer of Sherlock Holmes. And suddenly he was speaking as if we were a team. At least a team when it came to the actual mysteries. Part of me was touched by this sentiment, but another part... "Did you really just say you would pay me to sell my practice? And to assist you? Is that what I heard?"  
  
That grin again. "I can recommend a good audiologist if you did not, my friend."  
  
"But why would you do such a thing?"  
  
"To insure your cooperation, of course. You know that I rely on your..." he paused and for a moment I had no idea _what_ he may say, "moral support. Not to mention your companionship. These cases _do_ seem to go easier if I have you to talk out my reasoning with." He must have seen the look upon my face because he hurriedly added, "This is merely a mutually beneficial business arrangement, Watson, nothing more."  
  
"Is it?"  
  
"Of course...what did you think?"  
  
He did not want to know what I thought. "Holmes..." I began. "I really do not know what to say. It is a very generous offer...lucrative even. But I don't really see how I can accept it. First of all, there is someone else to consider. I must think of Parks in this thing. Surely I owe it to him..."  
  
"Your colleague will be allowed to stay on, the same as always."  
  
"But...how could you know that?"  
  
He threw up his hands in the air and exclaimed, "I told you, I have thought of everything, including keeping Doctor Parks on as assistant! It would be extremely illogical for you to refuse this offer. The price you would receive for the surgery as well as what I would pay you, while not steady, would be a significant raise in your annual income. And of course, there is the added bonus of more time with your child and to...keep an eye on me."  
  
The first thing that occurred to me after the last statement was that this would surely increase the gossip surrounding us. I could almost see it as a headline. _John Watson leaves surgery to spend more time with queer old detective Sherlock Holmes._ Well, I guess that shows how irrational I was at the time. But it wasn't even so much the gossip that I was concerned with. It was the fact that I had trained my whole life to be a doctor. I had been quite young when I had decided to devote my life to healing. I had been through a war, numerous outbreaks and epidemics, had seen death in nearly every form and had saved countless lives, if you will permit me to say. Could I really give all that up for this man? Simply for more money and more time? Up until that time, I had considered my meagre scribblings a hobby, nothing more. Would I really consider making a career out of it?  
  
"I...I am uncertain, my friend. Do not think me unappreciative, but I can't decide just right yet, on the spur of the moment. Let us wait until after this case, when we are not as...distracted, and then I shall have an answer for you. I really think that you may want to consider it further as well. After all, to give up half of your income..."  
  
"Ah, Watson, but the 'insolence of wealth will creep out'[2]. I am more inclined toward Matthew, for 'where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.[3]" It is more profitable to have the guarantee of success with my Biographer and colleague, than risk the chance of losing that what is so comfortable and familiar."  
  
"Well..."  
  
But I didn't know what to say. Neither, apparently did he. So as we neared the desolate moor, we sat once again, in silence. There apparently was much that had been said. But more even that had not.  
  
After several moments of this horrific silence, my friend broke it. "Do you think you shall ever re-marry?" he asked, totally unexpectedly.  
  
"I...where on Earth did that come from?"  
  
He must have sensed the queerness of this statement, or at least saw the surprise on my face. As it was, I felt my eyes twitch open wider. Why would he ask such a thing? _He may not be...all man in that respect_...No, that couldn't be why.  
  
"I was merely making conversation...and to know if I shall have to look once again for someone to occupy your room."  
  
Snorting, I turned to gaze out the window. He may lie and deceive with ease when it suited him, when necessary for his cases. But he could not to me. Not on something like this. I knew his mind too well. At least I hoped I did. But as I was not in the mood, I gave him the benefit of the doubt.  
  
"No," said I. "I shall not. You can rest your mind as to my..._room_."  
  
He nodded and left it there. I was extremely grateful that he didn't ask me as to why I would never remarry. That was one conversation that I was not ready for. Something backed up in my throat, and I felt like choking. How could he ask such a thing? And how could I tell him the reason I never could? It was not so much that I would feel disloyalty to Mary if I did so...no, it was something else. Guilt, I think. Guilt over the fact that I had killed her. The reason she was lying in the bed, bleeding to death, without me even being present was because I had gotten her pregnant. Logic was playing no part of my mind at the time. The only thing I could think on then, as the train slowed toward the Dartmoor Station was that, when you came down to it, it was I that had been responsible for the death of my wife. Why did he have to remind me of it?  
  
-Yes, folks, Watson is pretty confused...and angry, suspicious, upset...you name it. But don't worry. I love happy endings. It just may take a long time to get to one. Please review! And more to come soon...sooner this time, I hope.  
  
----------------------- [1] In SCAN, Holmes tells Watson he is lost without his Boswell. James Boswell was the Biographer of Samuel Johnson. [2] Ironically, Samuel Johnson from Boswell's 'Life of Johnson.' [3] Matthew 6:21 


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks for your patience! I hope you enjoy this instalment, and please review!  
  
After stop-offs in Salisbury and Exeter, it was sometime after four when the express pulled into the Dartmoor station. Miss Bishop was waiting for us with us a dogcart and team. A beautiful team at that, I might remark, spotless gleaming chestnuts. They stamped at the ground and flicked their ears with the nervous energy of exceptional breeding. If nothing else, Black Bishop raised magnificent horses.  
  
"Mr. Holmes! Dr. Watson!" The lady cried, waving at us as we pushed our way through the growing crowds. To see her sitting there with the reigns in her hands was a bit of a surprise. I could never remember seeing a woman, especially a lady, ever driving her own team. However, right at that moment, it was clear to me that she was as nervous as her pair. Her beautiful face was flushed and her voice was full of emotion.  
  
"Oh, Mr. Holmes!" She said as soon as we were near. "They have done it! I knew that they would, but still I cannot believe it! There must be an explanation for it!"  
  
"Do try and be calm, Miss Bishop," Holmes said, climbing next to her in the dickey[1]. "I cannot help you if you are hysterical. Now, what has happened?" My friend spoke so gently...so humanly and actually reached to take her hand in his own, a benevolent gesture that dispelled in my mind his earlier rudeness to the lady.  
  
She took a shaky breath, and nodded. "Forgive me, gentlemen. It has been a trying day. But we still have a drive of another hour, so perhaps we should be off first and then I shall tell you what occurred when I returned home this afternoon." She snapped the reigns and the chestnuts eagerly headed off in a quick cantor toward Black Bishop.  
  
As we headed away from the station and civilization, further into the desolate country of Dartmoor, Miss Bishop explained: "Inspector Clayton was waiting for me when I arrived home to Black Bishop. The first thing I noticed was that Tom...Mr. Kingston was not there. The odious Inspector, nearly bragging, told me that he was holding him in Dartmoor[2]. Besides the row with Father, there was now more evidence."  
  
"What is the nature of this new evidence?" Holmes asked.  
  
"The weapon used to commit this crime, Mr. Holmes. A constable who has been standing watch at the estate claimed he noticed some loose soil in a nearly invisible area near the stables. Digging around with the heel of his boot first and then with his hands, he uncovered a blood and dirt encrusted knife- a hunting knife with a short hilt and serrated blade. Mr. Kingston apparently did not deny that he owned it, and in fact has several that are not dissimilar. Because of this, Mr. Clayton arrested him."  
  
"So this knife that was used and the fact that it appeared Mr. Kingston had a motive-that argument with your late father-is all that Clayton has in the way of evidence?"  
  
"To the best of my knowledge."  
  
Victory rang-out all across my friend's face, as if the case was already solved, and he climbed back to sit with me in the passenger area. There was a clear smirk on his face, although I could not tell if it was from self-assuredness or irritation. "Then you can clear your mind of worry, Miss Bishop. Your Mr. Kingston is quite innocent. And time shall allow me to prove this to the regulars[3]."  
  
"Holmes," I muttered, grasping his arm. "Do you not think it unwise to make such promises to the lady? It would seem to me that this Inspector Clayton may be justified in his arrest. Not only does this Thomas Kingston not have an alibi, but he does have a motive. And now, the very murder weapon he has admitted is his own! Surely, this is rather damning."  
  
"Not at all," my friend replied. "As a matter of fact, nothing more could clear him than this knife-business. Think on it, doctor. In a premeditative murder such as this, what sort of sane man would pick for his weapon of choice a knife that could so obviously be traced back to him? And for that matter, what sort of a man who makes his living by caring for horses, would choose to bury said weapon in a place that he frequents more than any other-the stables? And still yet, why would this man choose the very night that he had this row with the victim to henceforth murder him? Knowing that he would be the first to be suspected? No, no. It is not rational, Watson."  
  
"So you suspect Kingston is being framed?"  
  
"I suspect nothing as of yet. But do not worry, my friend. 'Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind[4].' I shall not allow the culprit to go unpunished."  
  
The rest of the journey was done in relative silence. I felt uneasy, as if I should have at least attempted small-talk with Miss Bishop, but she sat staring ahead, straight as an iron rod, urging the horses forward. I could not bring myself to intrude on her private thoughts. Holmes, too, sat perfectly still, as still as on the train, head against his breast with eyes closed and arms crossed. His body was rigid, nearly rigor, and I knew his mind was as far from the moor as I wished my own heart and soul were. Another would have thought him asleep. But I knew better.  
  
And so I was left by myself to stare into the muted colours of the moor, feeling the wind whistle through my ears and across my neck, a dry winter's sun beating down with unseasonable warmth. I hadn't been to Dartmoor in nearly a decade, since the case involving the Baskervilles. It was a haunting place for me, and would always remain so. Part of the reason were images of gigantic hounds trailing us from the dusty road, the moon full in my mind and the only thing visible-jagged yellow fangs ready to bear down into my jugular. I shook my head, trying to get that thought out of my mind, but unconsciously I rubbed at my throat. It surprised me none that all lately I was capable of envisioning was evil.  
  
The former Hilton Grange, now called Black Bishop was truly a marvel of Baroque Architecture, made even more magnificent by the fact that there were so few examples left standing. I put it early of last century, most likely Hawksmoor[5], with all the expected bold curvature and strong lines that seemed to expand the house forever on each wing before suddenly jutting out, giving the front a nearly hidden, shadowy approach. The roof glimmered bronze in the sun from all the ornamental work, and a thousand windows glistened down upon us. The only unexpected thing was the building itself. Rather than the expected dull grey rock stone or brick, the building was made of darker agate rock, which really did give it the appearance of being black. Hence its name.  
  
While I was busy taking in the breathtaking estate that seemingly grew from the earth of the moor, Holmes jabbed me on the air and motioned toward a caged cab with a pair parked almost near the entrance. My friend pointed this out to Miss Bishop. "It appears that you have guests, madam. The charming local constabulary, no doubt."  
  
Our client tightened the reigns and the chestnuts slowed to a stop. "Clayton has already arrested Tom. Why must he further molest my family and I by forcing his presence on us?"  
  
"Do not concern yourself, Miss Bishop," said I, jumping out of the cart. "He will leave you in peace, Holmes and I will see to that."  
  
She rewarded me with a gentle smile. "I thank you, Dr. Watson. But the thing you can do most to insure my peace is to help your friend to solve my father's murder. Do not let that...cretin distract you."  
  
"This Clayton must indeed be a nasty chap." I said aside to Holmes. "Leastways, Miss Bishop thinks very little of him."  
  
"Mm..." he muttered, his eyes darting about the layout of the house. "Perhaps. But keep in mind she is reacting to what she perceives as injustice. This Clayton has arrested the man she loves. It is hard to keep an unbiased mind to one's character under such circumstances."  
  
"Well, yes...I suppose you are right."  
  
"Of course. Now come, Watson. We must meet this infamous inspector."  
  
We had hardly stepped foot in the house when we were pounced upon by a tiny shrew of a fellow. I can honestly say without guilt that he was one of the strangest curs I have ever laid eyes upon. At height I would put him not much over a metre and a half but with a chest so broad like a bulldog that I put his weight at 14 stone[6]. He was also strangely short of limb-both arm and leg. His face was quite sun-beaten and covered with pockmarks. There was no facial hair to be seen and indeed not much hair at all, save a thin coating of peach fuzz plastered above a virtually non-existent lip. However, truly it was the creature's eyes that set it apart. In colour they were some shade of brown, but appeared to be glazed with thick veins and protruded from overgrown sockets. His dress immediately set to my mind a police officer-although he was plainclothed. A careful study through the years with Holmes had allowed me this one detecting ability.  
  
"Who the devil are you?" The man asked, flinging aside his overcoat and derby. He, too, must have only just arrived to be still clad in his outerwear. The voice was not as highly pitched as one would expect from such a person, but it was accented to the south-the country jargon. Although in my mind from the way Miss Bishop had spoke of him, I would have expected something much different, I had no doubt in my mind we were now in the presence of the nefarious Inspector Clayton.  
  
"These are private detectives from London, Mr. Clayton," Miss Bishop stated plainly. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. I have summoned them here to find my father's true murderer."  
  
"Foolish girl!" He expostulated. "You refuse to see that Thomas Kingston has done this! Well, that's a woman for you." He was positively snidely.  
  
"Take care of your tone, Inspector," said Holmes calmly. "I care not for men who would speak so to a lady. We are not here to undermine you. My friend and I will exist at Black Bishop merely as the guests of Miss Bishop, that is all."  
  
The way he spoke, the words he used- I instantly wished that I had thought to say it first.  
  
"Ha!" Clayton said. "And you expect me to believe this? Do not think us so far removed from society that we out here have not heard of your..."  
  
Greatness...skill...mastery...any of these adjectives would have been appropriate in describing Sherlock Holmes. However, I highly doubted that any of these words would roll off this man's tongue. And I was correct.  
  
"Meddling."  
  
Although it always infuriated me whenever someone would dare to suggest that Holmes was merely a meddler when it came to crime, I think that you, dear reader, know different, and anyone who has ever had the privilege to actually see him operate would never dare to suggest something of the like. Yet it did not perturb my friend. The opinions of the populace mattered little to him. But to me, it filled me with a burning fire that made me long to wipe the smirk off Clayton's face. He had no right.  
  
"You have the right to your own opinion, Mr. Clayton," Holmes said blandly. "However, if you are so confidant in your arrest of Thomas Kingston, than I see not how my being here can upset you."  
  
"Oh, I am not upset. In fact, I should enjoy being witness to your investigation. I should like to be one of few _actual_ detectives that will see the fantastic theories you use go up in smoke."  
  
"Now, see here..." I said, actually taking a step toward him.  
  
But Holmes grasped my shoulder and shook his head. "No, Watson. It's hardly worth it. Miss Bishop, if you would be so kind as to show me to your father's room. I should like to put my fantastic theories to practice there first."  
  
Elizabeth Bishop nodded, and the three of us left Inspector Clayton and two of his constables to go about their business, whatever that may be.  
  
We were led through the rather scarcely lit receiving hall and up a grand staircase that had been remodelled in mostly expensive French marble. Portraits of Hiltons-both past and present-stared at us with blank expressions of muted oil colours. The sound of Miss Bishop's light, feminine steps and Holmes and I more masculine ones echoed throughout the estate. I could not see living in such a palace as this. It filled me full of the fear of murderers lurking in every dark corner. But perhaps that was simply do to my remembrance of Baskerville Hall. The plains of Dartmoor held little comfort for me.  
  
"It is a strange thing, Miss Bishop," said Holmes as we entered a long hallway in the west wing of mostly bedrooms. "That in so large an estate as Black Bishop you retain only three servants. Four, if you include Mr. Kingston. Why is there no butler? No scullery maids?"  
  
"Well...there is not exactly one answer to that Mr. Holmes. We used to hold a scullery maid, a gardener and a third charwoman And also a governess for my brother and I. But gradually over the years they left and Mother never saw fit to replace them. She is...well, before she became so gravely ill, she was not the easiest woman to work for. She was not easily satisfied, and I am afraid that the majority of the servants found her constant religious preachings hard to handle. Mrs. Oliver, our cook, and Jane Merriweather, our first maid, have both been with mother nearly my whole life and would never abandon her. Anne Duncan, our second maid, has been here these five years and is Mrs. Merriweather's niece. As for a butler...Father never saw the need for one. I know it seems odd that so few servants could properly care for all of Black Bishop, but for years now there are many wings that no one bothers to enter. It is a large, sad house, sir."  
  
"Yes...tell me, if your father slept here on the second floor, where is your mother's chamber?"  
  
"Oh...Mother slept on the main floor, in the east wing. She never leaves the room anymore. A local doctor from Darby comes by twice a week to check on her and Richard and the maids care for her between times."  
  
"Richard? Really?"  
  
She appeared slightly embarrassed. "I know that it seems queer...but Mother and I were never close. She always preferred my brother to myself. He is very dear to her, and she to him. He reads the Bible to her...talks with her...even helps her to eat."  
  
There were a few things that I thought should have been asked at this point, as they seemed pertinent to the case, but I was greatly surprised when Holmes gave a brief nod and simply replied, "I see."  
  
Miss Bishop had done Holmes a great favour by apparently leaving the room relatively untouched, although what damage the police had done was impossible to tell at this point. The chamber was scarce as far as decoration was concerned. A clothes cupboard, shut, was against one wall. A small desk, similar to a Davenport, sat just off-centre to the window. There were no drawers in it however, so there were no papers or legal sheets or the like that could be helpful. The only other furniture was a washstand, holding a pitcher and basin. A spirit lamp[7] sat on a small night stand. No pictures were upon the walls. No bell-pull. Not even a rug on the floor. It was as bare a chamber as ever I had seen.  
  
And then of course there was the poor fellow's bed. The linens, once virgin white, were now forever encrusted with pools of blood. I could not honestly say I remembered ever seeing so much red in one place, at least not since the war. And even then...this was different. Monstrous. The blood had coagulated yellow in spots on the bed quilt, and splattered against the oak bedstead in thick droplets. The pillow could hardly be called that anymore. More exactly, it was hard to look at. There was a discernable head-shaped impression-a faded yellowish mark barely noticeable among all the blood and splatter.  
  
"Good Lord," I muttered. I could not think on such a thing as this. I could not even imagine such a crime. And I had seen many gruesome sights over the years. But not like this...how that poor fellow must have died...  
  
Holmes' eyes immediately narrowed to two grey slivers. I assume he no doubt had the ability to see the room as a machine, as the great logician and not as a human being. There were times I longed for that ability.  
  
"You will see, Mr. Holmes," Clayton said, appearing out of no where to lean against the entrance way. "That this was a barbaric crime done by a strong fellow who was obviously very angry. They only such person to meet that criteria is Thomas Kingston."  
  
"Oh, no doubt," Holmes said with a smile. "May I offer my congratulations on such a...thorough and rapid arrest, Inspector?"  
  
"Mr. Holmes!" Miss Bishop exclaimed, but I recognized this ploy and took her hand. She turned to me, shocked, as I whispered, "Trust him."  
  
But Clayton looked sceptical. "You now are saying that you believe Kingston guilty then?"  
  
"I never denied that I did...to you," he replied, which was the truth. "However, I don't believe your case to be quite complete yet. You evidence is lacking."  
  
"Lacking?"  
  
"Yes...you have no confession, the one true damning piece of evidence. I believe I could get you one. If only you would permit me a few moments with the prisoner tomorrow. Oh, and perhaps a view of the body tomorrow morning...before the burial?"  
  
I could not see the man agreeing to this. He obviously did not trust Holmes and resented his being here. But I had seen my friend crack harder nuts than this, and I placed my confidence in his abilities.  
  
The dark suspicious eyes studied him. "I don't believe I need a confession...there is more than enough evidence without it. However, I don't know what harm it could do. Be there no later than the seventh hour in the morning, Mr. Holmes and do what you will. But after that, I expect you to stay out of my affairs and investigations, sir."  
  
"Of course." Holmes said. "Of course."  
  
He nodded slowly. "All right then." We heard his footfalls in the hall, and then the team as they cantored off to the constabulary.  
  
"But sir! You don't really believe..."  
  
"You know that I do not, Miss Bishop," Holmes said before she could even finish her question. "As we all know, 'the police invent more than they discover.'[8] But it was necessary that Clayton think he and I are on the same page. I could not possibly have all the data in this bizarre business if I could not see your father's body. And now that that unpleasantness is behind us, I think I shall start by asking a few questions of whomever found the body. That would be?"  
  
"Anne Duncan found my father. I shall call her for you."  
  
The maid, the second maid actually, was a tall, plump girl, but amiable in appearance. She did not look especially disturbed at the state of Bishop's room, but I suppose that indicates little. No doubt the occupants of Black Bishop had grown used to the reality of after four days.  
  
"You were the first person to find your master, were you not, Miss Duncan?" He absentmindedly waved toward the desk chair after I caught his eye. This was my herethereto unmentioned job with Holmes. To see to it that he maintained his respectability when his mind was clogged with data. He occasionally didn't take the time for such trivialities.  
  
"Yes, sir," the maid said. "When he didn't appear for breakfast, I came and knocked on his door."  
  
"And then?"  
  
"There was no answer, sir, of course. So I opened it a wee bit. 'Mr. Bishop?' I said. 'Breakfast.' And then I saw..." a great shudder went through her, and she turned away from the bed. Perhaps I had erred. No one could really grow used to so ghastly a sight. "Forgive me, sirs. It is not a pleasant memory."  
  
"You are very brave," said I.  
  
"But I was not, sir. For the very moment I laid eyes on Mr. Bishop, I screamed and fled. There is little, I am afraid, that I could tell you."  
  
"That is an accurate declaration. It is the body that will tell me how exactly this thing occurred. However, there are one or two points I should like to make clear. Firstly, did you hear anything the night of the murder?"  
  
"No, sir," the maid replied, shaking her head. "Neither I nor Mrs. Merriweather heard a sound."  
  
Holmes sighed and nodded. "I thought not. Second, to the best of your knowledge, is all in this room as it was that morning?"  
  
The maid's brow wrinkled in a state of deep thought. I couldn't see how Holmes expected the woman to remember such details. The average mortal did not posses such an exact, photographic brain. "Holmes," said I, taking him aside. "The woman has already told you she immediately fled the room screaming in horror when she saw this sight. And I am sure that even you can admit you cannot blame her. What could you expect her to notice in those few seconds?"  
  
"We shall see, doctor, we shall see. But keep in mind Miss Duncan is a trained housemaid. According to Miss Bishop she has been here in service for five years now. She is trained to make sure all is in its proper place. Her mind may subconsciously notice what her eye did not."  
  
"The window, sir!" she exclaimed quite suddenly. "It escaped my mind until right this moment, but I recalled just now that it was open. Eventually someone, a policeman perhaps, shut it, but I am certain that it was open that morning. I can recall the drapes blowing about quite vividly."  
  
"The window was open?" said I. "Well, that is quite singular, is it not? Perhaps the murderer was indeed a stranger who came through the window, killing the poor fellow in his sleep. How is that, Holmes?"  
  
Holmes strolled over and unsnibbed the latch. A heavy gust of wind blew in and the long drapes shot out around us. Sticking his head out, I feared for a second that my friend may actually attempt to climb to the ground. It would not be the first time he had attempted such a feat. "Take care, man!" I cautioned. "You'll fall!"  
  
But then he leapt back in and motioned me over. My heart sank as I saw what he did. It was at least 9 metres from the ledge to the ground, no trellises or vines, and no where that I could see with my eye that would support a man's weight with a rope or the like.  
  
"Would you consider it an easy task for any man not an acrobat to gain access to this window?" Holmes asked.  
  
"No, I would not. I couldn't see anyone climbing this. Particularly in the dark of night. But then, why would the window be open?"  
  
"An amateur and obvious ploy," he mumbled. "Done by the murderer to lead some single-minded policeman to suspect this may have been done by someone who entered through the window. No, no. The murderer entered through that very door." He pointed at the only entrance.  
  
"So...it was someone here in this house, after all?" Miss Bishop sounded positively dejected upon this reality.  
  
Holmes nodded, strolling over to the bed. "I am afraid so. But that was obvious before I had even set foot in this place. Stabbing, Miss Bishop, is a personal and horrific crime. Contrary to popular belief, a crib- cracker very rarely resorts to murder. They prefer to study a place, and then break in when they are fairly certain they will be undisturbed. Besides, if a stranger had done this, why risk multiple stabbings when a simple throat slashing (his hand came up and sliced at the air dramatically) would have sufficed? It would have been much more rapid and would have insured that Bishop could not have screamed."  
  
Miss Bishop shuddered and made her way over to the desk chair previously occupied by the maid. I was unsure as to whether this was do to Holmes very vivid descriptions or the realization that someone she knew must be guilty of her father's murder. "Then," she whispered. "That means that someone here killed my father. But that means the most likely person is..."  
  
"We do not know that Bullard did this, madam," Holmes said gently. "It is too early to theorize. After I view the body tomorrow, I will be much closer. There is just one further thing for me to know. Did your solicitor keep a room here? Or an office?"  
  
"Why, yes he did. In the east wing main floor, just two rooms down from Mother's. He stayed here so frequently that he kept a bed and desk and some personal property. But I have never been in the room and it is locked. But if it is necessary for you to see it, I shall send him a telegram and demand that he allow you to! If he has done this, I shall..."  
  
"No, Miss Bishop," said Holmes. "You must not. Let me handle this my own way. It will be far better if you are not involved. Let us all take a breather. May I suggest a short walk and some air?"  
  
"A marvellous suggestion, old boy," I added. "Miss Bishop, you would do will with that, I think."  
  
"Yes. Yes, gentlemen, I would. This room is haunting to me. And besides, if we head behind the estate through the coppice, then I dare say we may come across Dicky. I am certain that is where he will be. And I am sure that you shall like to meet him, am I right?"  
  
"It is necessary," my friend said, offering the lady his arm.  
  
What Miss Bishop referred to as a coppice was more or less a thicket of English pine so dark I wondered as to how Miss Bishop could even find her way. It was very odd, that out here on the moors there would be such a thing, for besides the occasional mere, bog or tor there is nothing but plains grass as far as the eye cares to see. When I mentioned this to our client, she replied, "These trees have been here for generations, planted by some ancestors whose names have died with history. I am grateful that my ancestors saw to it that they stayed. It makes the whole estate smell of Christmas and...happier times. Dicky is always coming here. For hours he sometimes stays. I don't know what he does, for he won't speak of it, but...oh, here he is now, just over there."  
  
Pushing boughs of evergreen out of the way, feeling thick sap attach itself to my gloves, we at last came to a clearing. Here the gigantic pines were thinned somewhat and we were treated to a glorious sight indeed.  
  
That stream was visible now, and I saw it crystal clearness jutting seemingly from no where, bouncing about knee deep, 6 metres wide and continuing across the mire as far as my eye could make out. Yet it was almost completely enveloped by the curious forest. The sun gleamed like glass off the water, creating millions of diamonds in the shadows of the trees. The sun contrasted lovely with the breeze of the forest. A soft coolness traced across my neck and cheek. Truly this was a magical place.  
  
In this Eden was one other thing. A short, dark-haired lad in his middle teens. Had he not been announced, I would still have recognized his without invitation. He was the male, mirror-image of his sister. Same elfish face, petite frame and nearly coal black eyes and thick head the colour of mahogany. The two even shared the curled lashes that beset those dark eyes. He stood in the trickling stream in short pants and sleeves, barefoot, a pair of rubbers laying casually by the water's edge.  
  
"_There_ you are, Dicky!" Miss Bishop exclaimed. "Now come out of there straight away! You'll surely catch your death!"  
  
The boy turned with a scowl in our direction, looking resentful as a child rebuked by his mother. But then, given their parental situation, this young lady probably was his maternal figure. "You'll have to excuse my tone with him, gentlemen. But I fear he's a sickly soul. Asthma, haemophilia, and chronic pneumonia. The last thing he needs is wet feet."  
  
Trudging through the water with arms crossed, he at first seemed not to even notice Holmes or myself. Instead, he rather glared up at his sister with unnerving eyes. "You had promised me not to come here," the boy said. Up close, the two appeared even more alike. There was refinement to Richard Bishop's voice as well, that indistinguishable trait of intelligence and gentility. Despite his attitude.  
  
"Don't be obstinate, brother. I needed you to meet these two gentlemen. They are Mr. Sherlock Holmes, a detective from London, and his colleague, Dr. Watson. They are going to find out who murdered our father."  
  
The boy shook our hands cordially enough, although it was obvious that he was nervous upon hearing my celebrated friend's name. I am sure that Holmes was thinking as I. Could this young fellow know something?  
  
"I have read a few of your cases, sir," said he. "If you really are that clever as Dr. Watson makes you to be, than you should have no obstacle with this case."  
  
"Richard!" Miss Bishop exclaimed. "Don't be rude!"  
  
"I wasn't! It's only..."  
  
"Have you information about your father's death, Richard?"  
  
For a second or two perhaps, I thought that the boy was going to reveal some huge skeleton in the cupboard, some pivotal break in the case. His dark eyes were lit with the anxiety of holding back some truth, but then in the same breath, he clamped back up again. "No, sir. I know nothing. Only what the police have already learned."  
  
If it was obvious to me that Richard Bishop was lying, then it was more than clear to Sherlock Holmes. "Now, Richard..." Miss Bishop began, but Holmes suddenly interrupted her.  
  
"Perhaps it would be prudent if I were permitted a few moments alone with Master Bishop. He and I can have a stroll through these charming woods and you, Watson, can escort Miss Bishop back to the estate."  
  
"Oh...oh, of course," said I. I was slightly disappointed that I was not to be present at this inquiry, but I trusted that Holmes' photographic memory would be able to recall it verbatim for me later. "My Lady," I said, enjoying the feeling of the delicate strength of her hand against my arm. She smiled at me, and we headed back toward Black Bishop.  
  
"I am greatly relieved because of your presence here, Doctor Watson. I am certain that Mr. Holmes will sniff out the true culprit here, and free Tom."  
  
"No doubt that he will, Miss Bishop. Although I must admit this is an odd sort of case, I have confidence that Holmes will not rest until he has solved it." I could smell her perfume over the heavy smell of pine. It was the first time that I had been alone with a woman since Mary. And such a beautiful woman at that...Lord, what was I thinking? I was old enough to be this young lady's father. And she was already engaged, obviously very much in love. Yet still, I couldn't help becoming a little enamoured with her. She was quite desirable to me at that time.  
  
"You must forgive my brother, Doctor," she said as we cleared the thicket and the titanic estate loomed over us once again. "He is not himself, I am afraid, and has not been since Mother's illness took a turn for the worst."  
  
"Do you not think that he could be hiding something? Something that he may not have even told you?" I hoped that I did not sound accusatory. But I thought that I could at least attempt to aid Holmes in this thing. "Perhaps he could even be afraid of something...or someone."  
  
"I cannot say for sure, sir. He does not appear to act any different around Mr. Bullard. And Dicky was always very close to Tom. Growing up without his father, he looked toward Tom as a role model of sorts. If there were anything that he knew that could help him, I cannot imagine him not coming forward."  
  
I nodded, as I spied Holmes just off in the clearing, heading toward us. Richard Bishop was no where in sight, and it was hard to judge from the look upon his face whether his 'chat' had been a success or not. He was sent like flint as was typical.  
  
"Where is Dicky?" our client asked.  
  
"Still in his clearing, I should think."  
  
"Oh...well, what can I show you now, Mr. Holmes?"  
  
"The way to the nearest inn, Miss Bishop," Holmes replied. "The good doctor and I shall have an early morning tomorrow, and it is already nearing 7:30 o'clock. Some supper and a comfortable bed, I should imagine are what we require most."  
  
Although to me, that sounded like a capital idea, it was odd that Holmes was suggesting it. I could only surmise that he must have learned something from Richard Bishop, or had something that had suddenly stuck him that he wanted to think on. But whichever it was, we loaded into Miss Bishop's dog-cart with the two chestnuts, and headed off toward Bishop's Gambit, the local inn in Darby. It was a drive of nearly another hour, and Holmes regaled me with the tale of his short meeting with Master Richard Bishop.  
  
"He is an unusual child, Watson. Overtly religious it appears, and very solitary. He is quite intelligent, I should think and would have a promising future if he weren't so supercilious. It is strange, though. This arrogance is nearly hidden, yet somehow so obvious that I couldn't miss it. He is also well-read, quite a lover of poetry and a swimmer, although over all, he is very un-athletic."  
  
"And he told you all of this?"  
  
"No...but it was obvious none-the-less. He quoted the Bible and Donne to me, had a hand-held addition of Pope in his trouser pocket, and had the exact developed muscles of the shoulders and calves that one expects from one who swims frequently, yet on land can barely manage on his own two feet. But this is all irrelevant...the truth is, Richard Bishop is most assuredly hiding something." He explained what had happened:  
  
_"I know that the return of your father must have come as quite a shock to you," said Holmes. "And probably angered you as well. Your sister told us that you are quite close to your mother."_  
  
_"I honour her as is required by the fifth commandment. By I honour her because I chose to. I only honour my father because I am required to."  
  
"I see. You obviously share your mother's love of religion_."  
  
_The boy starred at my friend then, as if he had said something offensive. "It is blasphemy not to, sir."_  
  
_This was his opportunity. "Is it not also blasphemy to lie? To purposively conceal a crime?"_  
  
_The look upon the child's face suggested that Holmes had him. But the battle is far from done. "There is no commandment against concealing anything. Even if I were."  
_  
_"But surely, Master Bishop, you are familiar with the book of James? Chapter 4, verse 17 to be exact? If you cannot remember the exact wording, that let me refresh your memory. 'Whoever knows what is right to do and fails to do it, for him it is sin.'  
_  
"Let me tell you, Watson, his skin was notably flushed upon hearing this. He looked as if the hand of God was there upon him, smiting him to the ground. Truthfully, Watson, I felt a little sorry for the boy. Having a zealot for a parent is never an easy upbringing."  
  
_"'If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves[9],' sir. I am not perfect, nor are you. That glory is only for the Lord. But even if I face eternal damnation for any displeasure I have caused unto Him, I shall be thankful for it. Some things are more important then one's self."_  
  
_"Such things as abetting a murderer?"_  
  
_He looked genuinely surprised at that. "I am abetting no one, sir. But this much I shall tell you. The death of Bruce Bishop, my father, was an act of God. He sinned against him, and the Lord saw the sin, just like Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden, or Cain when he killed his brother Abel. And Father was punished for it."_  
  
"Such a blasé reaction to murder?" I interrupted him. Just ahead, houses became visible and I thought that distantly I could even see what looked like an inn with a dark coloured plaquered.  
  
"Yes, I did think it unusual. But this particular boy seemingly lives his life on the Book."  
  
_"Then," continued Holmes. "If you believe your hands clean, Master Bishop, I shall leave you in peace. Perhaps this was a worthy crime-worthy in the eyes of whatever God controls your life. I hope that you understand, though, that my conscious commands me that I must see justice done. At whatever the cost."_  
  
_"Even the cost of your own soul, Mr. Holmes?"_  
  
"The hardness of his eyes, doctor, starring at me in what could be considered a small Eden was quite unnerving, I assure you. He looked significantly older than his years right then. I did not reply, sensing that our interview was at a finish, and left him there to the trees and nature and poetry. Yet I could hear Donne as I headed away from him. It was 'Devotions upon Emergent Occasions.'  
  
_Any man's death diminishes me  
Because I am involved in mankind;  
And therefore never send to know  
For whom the bell tolls;  
It tolls for thee.  
_  
"Good Lord," I mumbled. "He truly is a strange child. But whatever do you think it is he is hiding?"  
  
Holmes shook his head. "I cannot say. Yet. But after tomorrow, I think I may. Until then, there is no use in thinking on it. There is not enough data for an effectual assumption."  
  
Bishop's Gambit, obviously named after that most famous estate in the area, looked to be like any other country inn. Several locals enjoying a pint were scattered throughout the common room, where a roaring and inviting fire engaged them. After all that had happened today, I should have liked nothing more than to join them, to play at being a common man enjoying a drink and the company of other men. But that was something that Holmes rarely if ever enjoyed, especially on a case. He sought out the landlord and engaged two rooms for us, and asked to have some supper and local ale sent up to the room. He would spend the night theorizing in private, and I would spend it alone with him, as was common.  
  
After first sending word via telegram to London, informing Mrs. Hudson and my son that we would not be returning, I settled into a common adjoining sitting room, between my chamber and Holmes'. There was a table and two armchairs as well as a fire in the fireplace. It was homey enough, and I immediately settled into a thick mutton stew and a mug of ale.  
  
I must admit the ale was quite delicious-robust and cold, heartily smooth, and most important of all-distracting to the mind's memory. Nevertheless, as the night wore on, I hadn't seen my friend drink three mugs of anything before. He was nervous, twitchier than usual, more jumpy than when on a case in the past. His nerves seemed frayed. The way he stood in front of the fireplace, tapping his foot, eyes darting back and forth, I was sure that there was something-something other than the body of Bruce Bishop on his mind.  
  
And that did not surprise me.  
  
"You seem distracted, Holmes." I felt the need to say something-anything- right then. It was the only thing I could think of that would not be considered offensive.  
  
"Distracted? Of course I am distracted, Watson!" he snorted and finished off the last draught in his mug. "I dislike being lied to."  
  
"You believe you are being lied to, then?"  
  
"Obviously I'm being lied to! Everyone who possibly could have killed the man has denied doing so. Therefore, someone is lying."  
  
"Of course..." I said, blushing slightly. "But Holmes, isn't that part of the mystery? Isn't there always a lie? That's the very heart of your profession, is it not?"  
  
"Mm...perhaps. But this is very bad business. This whole situation, I feel the end is not yet upon us. There is still more horror to come."  
  
"Horror?"  
  
"Oh, yes. Things are never what they appear, Watson. Don't you know that? What is one thing to one man may be the total opposite to another." He was staring at me now, staring so intensely that the piercing steel resonated the fire through them. Seldom had I noticed such a look from the man.  
  
But then...well, he grabbed my wrist, seizing it in those exceptionally strong fingers. He was leaning toward me. It took my mind several seconds to realize just what he intended, but as his lips were mere inches away, I was struck with a cold awareness.  
  
"Holmes!" I said with a shaking voice. "What on Earth do you think you are doing?!"  
  
He blinked several times, instantly relaxing the vice grip on my poor hand. "I...I apologize, my friend." He cleared his throat, a distant reddish tint flooding his cheeks. "I don't know what demon came over me."  
  
Laughing uncomfortably, I wanted nothing more than to play the whole thing off. "Well, that is obvious! You have been a little over generous with your ale, old boy!"  
  
He flashed me that whippish grin. "Perhaps."  
  
"Now there is no perhaps about it. You will never solve this case with a foggy mind. I insist that you put it out of your mind and try and get some rest."  
  
Snorting, he glared at me with a sideways sort of look. It relieved in me greatly that he appeared to be himself again, and not...whatever he was a moment ago. "Rest..." he was muttering. "You really do that all life's problems can be solved be either sleeping or eating, don't you, _doctor_?"  
  
"_Now_, Holmes. To bed. You are most assuredly an unpleasant drunkard. I have one child already at home, and I certainly need not one here as well."  
  
He pushed his mug onto the table, ambling toward his bedroom and I know I had won. It is not a privilege I am granted often. Just before he closed the door, he stopped, standing very still and meekly, a gesture that reminded me of Josh after being disciplined. It was a look I never would have expected from the great detective.  
  
"You know, Watson," he said in a soft voice. "It really is very good of you."  
  
"What is?" I asked, rather confused.  
  
"To be with me."  
  
Now it was my turn to stare. "You mean here, on this case?"  
  
His only response was to blink several times with a queer little frown. "We view the body tomorrow morning, 7 o'clock to give them time to prepare it for burial. Do not oversleep!" He pointed one of those long fingers at me and disappeared without so much as a good-night.  
  
I was awakened out of an empty dream of black shadows when the sky itself was still hollow the next morning. Three bangs on the door and then I struggled to see Holmes coming through the entrance way, holding a lamp. He was dressed, but looked slightly dishevelled and I knew that he had not been to bed at all that night. Struggling to a sitting position, I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes.  
  
"I trust you have a good reason for being here. Considering it is"-a quick check of my pocketwatch-"not even six in the morning?"  
  
"I trust I do, my dear fellow," he said with a smile and sat next to me. "For my night was spent far more profitable then your own. Do you know what this is?" He held up a roll of crumpled roll of parchment.  
  
"I am sure that I do not."  
  
"Very likely not. I obtained it from Black Bishop last night. To be more exact, from the office room of Ambrose Bullard. It is the will of the late Earl of Cantor."  
  
"You stole it?" I asked amazed. "You broke in there? Why on Earth would you do that?"  
  
'It was necessary that Miss Bishop and her household not know of it. And it was very profitable indeed, for we now have a suspect that we did not even know existed."  
  
Okay, I know this is sort of an evil place to stop...but I am a bit of an evil person! ----------------------- [1] Slang-the driver's seat [2] The prison, that is [3] Scotland yard, or just the police in general. [4] From Henry VI- 5.6.11 [5] The English architect Nicholas Hawksmoor (1661-1736), most famous for Baroque style, especially for his work on Westminster Abbey. [6] If my math is correct, that should be about 5 feet tall, aprx. 196 pounds. [7] A lamp that burns alcohol instead of oil [8] Napoleon-1814 [9] 1 John 1:8 


	6. Chapter 6

Okay, I'm finally updating (! I'm really sorry this took so long, but I've been really busy. Not to mention the fact that this chapter is really long. But that's enough excuses from me...enjoy!  
  
"Another suspect? And who the deuce would that be?"  
  
"Have you ever heard of an actor by the name of Michael Clive?"  
  
The name sounded vaguely familiar, like perhaps someone you had been at school with years ago. I almost could see a face, tanned and dark-haired, but it was muddled as if seeing it underwater. "I think I may have heard of him actually. But I cannot recall when or where. I'm afraid my mind doesn't function as efficiently as yours at this ungodly hour."  
  
Holmes smiled at the remark and replied, "It's of little consequence. Now I shall have to consult my biographies to give you more exact details, but some basic facts I retain in my mind. He was popular as a Shakespearian here in London some years ago, in his youth. I believe he is well-known for his impersonations especially. A few years later, to avoid a scandal of a personal nature, he fled England for France where he has remained since to the best of my knowledge."  
  
"What sort of scandal?"  
  
"Hmm...well, that could be anything, could it not? The point is, Watson, that before he went into acting, Michael Clive was born under the more auspicious title of Lord Michael Clive Sheffield St. Elridge Hilton."  
  
"Hilton? But then...surely, not. Is he...?"  
  
Holmes gave a brief nod. "Oh, yes. He is the only son of the late Earl and Countess of Cantor, brother to Lady Catherine Hilton Bishop."  
  
"My God..." I expostulated, the possibilities seemingly growing in my mind. "But it seems reasonable that Elizabeth Bishop didn't even realize she had this uncle. I cannot see her concealing information when she so obviously wants to clear Thomas Kingston name. However-what of this-if Richard Bishop had learned of this uncle, probably from his mother-then maybe he knows Clive killed his brother-in-law. Why, that could be what he is concealing!"  
  
"I have yet to tell you the most singular part, my dear fellow. It appears that Clive-Hilton was left out of his father's will. Here, I shall read it you, in the Earl's own words. 'To my only son, Lord Michael Clive Sheffield St. Elridge Hilton, also known as Michael Clive, I leave only the dishonour and disappointment that he has caused his father by the legion of disgusting life choices he has made, most of which stem from that stage name. I wish him the resourcefulness of his family's legacy to make-do with his remaining years.'  
  
"My Lord...that is harsh. Have you any idea why the late Earl would be so cold-hearted to his only son?"  
  
Holmes rolled up the parchment and tucked it away inside his jacket. "If you are referring to what the Earl of Cantor declares to be 'disgusting life choices' than I am sure that I haven't a clue. It could be something as simple as his becoming an actor. However, what is truly of issue here is that-which you just stated-it may be possible that Clive, who feels resentment toward his sister for cheating him of his birthright, may have sought revenge. It became clear that killing a woman as she lay on her deathbed would be of little satisfaction, so he plotted to kill what she loved most-Bruce Bishop. If that is the case, it is possible that he acquired Richard Bishop as a confederate. Master Richard, whose ardour toward his father outweighed his love of the Holy Law and Thomas Kingston- set to clear himself of blame by seemingly framing the man."  
  
I have to admit that my excitement at hearing all of this quite awakened me. I could feel the pang-pang of my heart against my ribcage. "Why, Holmes, you have done it! It all fits! Surely, that must be the answer."  
  
"Now, now, my dear doctor...we must not jump to conclusions. There is no evidence to support this supposition. At least, not of yet." He stood up and opened the door. "I'll send up for some breakfast for you. Strong coffee, I should think. And then we must be off to keep our appointment with Inspector Clayton."  
  
"Now, Holmes...you must also eat. I insist that you order some food for you, as well."  
  
He stared at me for several seconds, as if he wasn't sure what to say. "I am touched by your concern for my welfare. Get dressed!" He shut my door and bounded downstairs.  
  
The day dawned cool and bright, far colder than the previous, yet there was still a crispness to it that awakened the blood and senses, and made the whole country side smell of flowers and hope. The last night seemed years ago, and as Holmes sat next to me in the dogcart, everything seemed as it always had. I suppose that I would just have to monitor how much alcohol my friend took.  
  
It briefly entered my mind right than how odd it was that we were both grown men, yet I took it upon myself to care for him, in a matter of speaking. I had never before thought of that. But that was what it was. Whether he knew it or not, he needed me to safeguard him.  
  
And for some reason, that put everything in perspective.  
  
"A private bit of humour, Watson?"  
  
He was looking at me with a small grin on his face. I smiled back. But I knew I could not tell him what I had been thinking. "Oh, no. It is just...a bright winter's sun, a brisk morning breeze, the swaying of the moor grasses...this day seems far superior to the previous."  
  
He snapped the reigns and the chestnuts gathered speed. "I cannot say I share your sentiment."  
  
The police constabulary was a small stone building just off of the village of Darby, right next to the Dartmoor prison. One of the most feared places, it was large in size for a prison, and housed some of the most dangerous convicts that England had to offer, most of whom sat waiting for the inevitable trip to the gallows. It was not a place I can say I ever wanted to visit, and I certainly felt something akin to pity for young Kingston (if truly he were innocent) for being in such a dreadful place.  
  
Despite the fact that the hour was not even seven, Clayton was waiting for us just inside the holding area, where several large, burly men glared at us with expressions of iron. "So, you came after all, Mr. Holmes?"  
  
"Of course, Inspector...I always keep my promises." Holmes smiled politely.  
  
"I can assure you both that the only reason I am agreeing to this is pure disgusting curiosity. I cannot see what you expect to learn from a four day old corpse...not to mention Kingston. He will not say anything to us other than that he is innocent."  
  
"Perhaps you are not asking the right questions."  
  
Clayton narrowed his eyes dangerously, and reached for a bull's eye[1] which he lit, and then into a desk where he pulled out a small hunting knife with a tag hanging off it. "Here is the knife. It is still quite sharp. I'll show you to the body. We have no morgue here as most bodies come from the prison and are immediately burned in our incinerator. So we kept him in one of the old solitary cells." He motioned for us to follow him through a small iron door and down a very dank staircase.  
  
Despite the fact that my hands were gloved, I had a strong inclination not to touch anything. Clayton's lantern bobbed up and down glowing yellow in front of us, but it was still hard to see. The whole area had a sweaty coating to it, and smelled strongly of rubbish and...well, human waste. I could hear the echoes of laughing and screaming just above us, in the main area in the heart of the prison. The floor was dirt only, and I watched as shapes that were too dark to see, but curiously resembled rats ran past our boots. I shuddered, thinking how horrid it would be to be stuck in here, in solitary. Any normal man would go insane within days.  
  
"He is in here," Clayton said, unlocking a rusting door which screamed open. "The local surgeon is away on holiday so we could not perform a post mortem, but there is little need for one. We can all imagine how horrifically the man must have died. The family will be here to claim the body for burial in a few hours. I suggest that your little exam not be lengthened. That is, if you still wish to hold a chat with our most recent arrival." He grinned maddeningly, and left us the lantern as he we heard his footfalls disappear back to the holding room.  
  
"I say, Holmes," said I, turning the light up as far as it would go. "He is a most singularly unattractive character."  
  
"Mmm...indeed. Bring the light over here, Watson. Here is our unfortunate patriarch of the Bishop clan."  
  
The body of Bruce Bishop lay nude on a deal[2] table covered by a linen cloth. The table was old, appearing as though it may have been someone's dinner table many years ago, although now it was stained reddish and covered in nicks and scraps. The unsteady blade of some queasy police surgeon, no doubt.  
  
Although Clayton may have had no clue as to how pivotal an inspection of the victim can be in a case of murder, Holmes and I certainly did. My friend removed the cloth and instantly I prepared myself for the familiar sight and sounds. More specifically, the sight of translucent skin, slowly rotting into a shade of purplish-green. In the heat of summer, four days would typically be enough to begin the process of severe decomposition. However, the cool weather of November was an advantage, and the wounds were still perfectly visible on the criss-crossed body. I was a little surprised to see that there were no sutures in the chest, even though Clayton had told us that no post mortem had been performed. The most unforgettable thing, however, that one takes away from a morgue, even a make-shift morgue, is the smell. Particularly after four days. The smell of embalming fluid mixed with rot. Truly one has to smell a corpse to appreciate how terrible it is.  
  
Bruce Bishop lay in peace with eyes closed and the pennies still in place. I realized then that despite spending a day with his children in his home this was still the first time I was seeing him in person.  
  
He had the look of his children-that is, dark-haired and what I'm guessing was tan-skinned. He was average in height and weight. Clean-shaven, but rather long sideburns. No tattoos or distinguishing marks. All in all, not especially remarkable in appearance. Indeed, the only unusual feature I could see about the victim was the five or six knife wounds that marred his chest, abdomen and upper frame. It would not have been a painless or even quick death Bishop was granted.  
  
"Have you the knife?" I asked Holmes. He handed it to me, and I carefully measured the length and width against the wounds. It was an almost instant conclusion. "This is indeed the murder weapon. I would swear to it."  
  
"I never doubted it. Now, tell me about these wounds." He crossed his arms, and closed his eyes, seeing the puzzle pieces in his incredible mind as I described them.  
  
"Well..." said I, taking in a deep breath through the nose. "He was attacked from the right side, I can tell you that much, because these two wounds are off track...one penetrated the deltoid muscle of the shoulder...here, and one, the abdominal oblique...yet is still far enough away from the spleen and kidney not to have done much damage. This wound here is near the illium bone, but did not puncture the abdominal aorta...and these two in the ribcage...this one could have punctured the subclavial vein...no, wait, I think it did not, the tip of the knife hit the first rib. This last wound is between the second and third rib on the sternum, no where near any major artery. Holmes, this is quite unusual." I paused in my examination to wipe my hands on the cloth. "None of these wounds appear to be especially life threatening."  
  
Holmes' eyes blinked open. "You are certain?"  
  
"Well...I cannot be certain without a scalpel. But I am fairly confident. It could be due to the knife being so short. Or perhaps because whoever did this was so unsteady and nervous that they cared not to bother with aiming. Most probably a combination of the two. But...well, despite receiving five wounds, it is odd that he died. It should have taken much longer than a few hours for him to bleed out with no artery or vein punctured. It is quite curious."  
  
"Hmm..." Holmes said, pulling off his gloves. As gently as if caressing a woman's cheek, he brushed his hand over the wounds, trying to see them as they would have been fresh. "Do you see that, despite the beginning stages of decomposition, the wounds still do not have appeared to healed much in time they were inflicted until he died? In those several hours, you would have expected some degree of scabbing to occur, would you not?"  
  
"By Jove, you're right...this is certainly a curious death...I wonder if...Holmes, what are you doing?"  
  
"Watson, look at this..." he had pulled out his lens, and was running his fingers through the man's hair. He then inspected his own thumb and forefinger under the glass, rubbing them together. "Look at my fingers here. Do you see that residue?"  
  
I took the lens and peered at his hand, trying to see what he did. "Well...there is a very slight discolouration. Something dark...but it could be anything. Dirt...grime...this place is not exactly a paragon of cleanliness."  
  
"It is not dirt, nor I think grime. It has a thin, greasy quality to it. I shall have to have my microscope to be more exact, but offhand I should think that it is some sort of ink."  
  
"Ink? Why would a man have ink in his hair?"  
  
"I am uncertain." He reached into his overcoat and pulled out his penknife, cutting several hairs from Bishop's head, which he placed safely inside his handkerchief. "Hand me that knife, doctor. I think we are finished here. We have met one of the victim's in this most curious case. I think that it is time we were acquainted with the other."  
  
"I hope that Bishop was an entertaining host for you, gentlemen," Clayton said when we appeared again. "Although if not, I fear Kingston will not be much more so."  
  
"Have you some personal vendetta against this man, Clayton? I must say that you seem to take a lot of personal pleasure out of this case."  
  
"He is a murderer, sir!" He said, stopping very suddenly. "Indeed I take pleasure in putting a man like that exactly where he belongs!"  
  
We were before a cell now, down a rather darkened tunnel. It appeared that the only difference in this newer, upper section of the prison and the revolting lower section was the gaslights that hissed along the walls, casting long shadows in front of us. Another lone iron cell was our destination; this one with a dark shape of a man in it.  
  
"On your feet!" Clayton yelled as soon as the door was opened, kicking at the man.  
  
"For God's sake, man! He's hardly more than a boy!" I exclaimed. Clayton turned on me with a rabid look, as if I had dared to rebuke him in front of the prisoner.  
  
"Please, gentlemen!" Holmes said, grabbing my arm. "If you would be so kind as to leave us, Clayton. I would be most appreciative."  
  
For some reason, Clayton agreed with a nod and stepped out. "Just keep in mind that you would do well to heed my warning about that one, Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson."  
  
The inside of the cell contained a board attached to the wall, covered with a brown cotton blanket and pillow. On it, sat a tall fellow hunched against the wall, head resting on his hands. He was dark blond and heavy in the shoulders, but with a kind and childlike face. Although I knew that he was at least eighteen years of age, he looked younger. When Clayton slammed the door closed, he flinched noticeably and looked at us with dark, fearful eyes.  
  
"You needn't fear us, Mr. Kingston," Holmes said. "I am Sherlock Holmes and this is Dr. Watson. We were hired by Elizabeth Bishop to find the murderer of her father."  
  
"You are here from Lizzie?" His face took on a hopeful glow.  
  
"Indeed."  
  
"They have not allowed her to come and see me. It has only been four days, sirs, but I miss her terribly. I would go happily to my death if only I could have one last look at her beautiful face."  
  
"I shouldn't think that shall be necessary," Holmes said, sitting next to him. As there was no where else to sit, I settled for leaning against the hard stone wall, book out to take notes. "I believe that you are innocent of this crime and shall prove it. I do, however, need your help."  
  
"If it what Lizzie wants, than I will do whatever I can. But I must tell you, sir, that I have already tried to protest my innocent to Clayton and anyone else I have come in contact with. They will not hear it."  
  
"Well, I will hear it, Kingston. Now, to begin with, how did you feel about Bruce Bishop's sudden return three weeks ago?"  
  
Kingston shook his head. "I came to Black Bishop after Mr. Bishop had left. Lizzie was ecstatic about her father's return, and so I was for her. I had no reason to feel any other way, sir."  
  
"But somewhere, in those three weeks, Bishop became very angry with you. And apparently, you with he. What was the foundation for this damning dispute?"  
  
"It was...well," his tanned face grew reddish in the dim light.  
  
"I shall spare you from explanations, Kingston," Holmes said. "You wanted his permission to marry Miss Bishop. Her father was reluctant to give it."  
  
Kingston nodded. "Yes, sir. Although reluctant is a bit of a euphemism. To be truthful, sir, he was furious. Furious that I would even suggest such a thing. Lizzie was the granddaughter of an Earl, and I was...well, not in the same class."  
  
"I am sure that the fact Elizabeth would stand to inherit 500 more pounds upon her mother's death if she were married rather than not had somewhat of an impact on the man's attitude."  
  
"But...Lizzie and I were not interested in money. I'd kiss the Book on that, sir..."  
  
"Of course, Kingston," said Holmes, holding up a hand. "But you do realize that this makes you look as though you had a motive. That, and the knife, of course." Reaching into his pocket, he pulled the knife out, jamming it into the wooden bed between them. "You are certain that it is yours?"  
  
"I have a small collection of knives, sir. Some I inherited from my father. The only thing he ever gave to me...some I have received as gifts over the years. Mostly from Lizzie. I have two of this particular one..." He paused suddenly, picking the knife up and staring at it. His jaw dropped slightly.  
  
"Yes, Kingston?" Holmes seemed to have expected this response. I could see the eagerness in his face.  
  
"But...no, it's not possible."  
  
"The truth is, it is not your knife, is it, my boy?"  
  
Kingston's lower lip quaked. He clenched the weapon in his right hand, turning it over and over. He was shaking his head. "No!" He cried out suddenly, and threw it hard to the floor. The noise of metal clanking off the stone floor was made even clearer by my own stunned silence.  
  
"It isn't your knife, Kingston?"  
  
"Of course it is not, Watson. He is protecting someone. Who is it? Tell me, and you will be a free man."  
  
Clayton looked at my friend with a truly haunted expression. His eyes were round and dilated. The colour was completely gone from his cheeks. It had been quite some time since I had seen a man look so disturbed. Well, perhaps that is not exactly true, yet still I felt for the man. When he spoke again, his voice had lost all emotion: "No, sir. I was wrong. It is certainly my knife."  
  
Holmes jumped to his feet. "For God's sake, man! I know that you are protecting someone! Would you throw away your life because of some debt that you feel?"  
  
All he would do was nod. "I must, sir."  
  
"Don't be a fool, Kingston!"  
  
Clayton got to his feet, and wrapt on the bars with his fist. "Clayton! Mr. Clayton! I am ready to make a confession!"  
  
Nothing that Holmes could say would convince Clayton that Kingston was lying nor Kingston that he was making a grievous error in judgment. Clayton seemed positively giddy that Holmes had done just what he promised- to get him a confession. He didn't seem capable of hearing that the confession was erroneous.  
  
"Why would he do that?" I asked my friend as we left. "Who is he  
protecting?"  
  
"The murderer, of course."  
  
"But who?"  
  
He didn't seem to hear me. "There is still something I am missing. Some pieces of the puzzle do not fit as of yet. We must go back to Black Bishop."  
  
We arrived back at the estate in time to find that the funeral was over. Bruce Bishop was to be buried with a large marble headstone behind the estate, in the opposite fields from the stream and pines. It was a small, private affair, with only his children, servants, and a few townspeople that served as pallbearers. A shrivelled old vicar presided over the event. I half expected Lady Catherine to be in attendance, but she was not. I suppose that her illness was too great. The guests were led into the library for a luncheon afterwards, and Miss Bishop, wearing a long black gown came over to us. "I am sorry that you couldn't be here for the eulogy, gentlemen. Despite the circumstances, it was respectable and very worthy."  
  
"Bullard delivered it, no doubt?" asked Holmes.  
  
"No, actually...we asked the vicar to deliver it. I am afraid Mr. Bullard is ill and couldn't attend."  
  
I saw my friend's eyebrows jut up. "Is he? What impeccable...timing."  
  
"Well, Father is at rest. The only thing that remains for him is for his murderer to be brought to justice. Are you any closer to discovering who has done this?"  
  
I thought as I helped myself to a cup of strong tea to say that I was fairly certain he already knew, but was not ready to tell us as of yet.  
  
"By the end of this day, I should think I shall have an answer for you," Holmes said. Miss Bishop left us then, and Holmes and I were left to explore the library. It was an impressive one, with books carefully stacked from the floor to the ceiling on all walls but one. This one contained a reading desk and photographs, and several guns in show cases.  
  
"Curious..." Holmes said, leading me over to examine them.  
  
"It certainly is," said I. "While not the most expansive collection I have seen, they do have some rare models. This flintlock cavalry pistol, for example, probably dates to 1790. British made, but Turkish design, I think. And, Holmes, look at this Indian Torador Musket. Fabulous! Late of last century, with fantastically ornate gold Koftgari decoration."  
  
Holmes glanced at me with raised eyebrows. "I wasn't aware that you were such an expert on firearms, doctor."  
  
"Er...far from an expert. But I have picked up a few things along the way. It is a treat to see such rare, well-preserved examples."  
  
"The rarity is not what is curious, however. It is more so that there is one missing. Here." He pointed to one case hanging just above the desk. It was a partitioned case made to hold two handguns, probably of the same kind: a snub-nosed British Bulldog. One side still contained the weapon; the other was empty.  
  
"Perhaps someone is cleaning it," I said. "Or perhaps they only have the one now."  
  
Holmes snorted. "I highly doubt it. And what is more, I think that it is time that we returned to London. We have had a charming breath of country air, but the next piece of the puzzle lies in the City." I watched as his eyes fell to a framed photograph on the desk, a portrait of a family that I saw after a closer look was the Bishop family taken during happier times.  
  
"Ah, Miss Bishop," he said, tapping her on the shoulder as she talked to a young woman I didn't recognize. "Pardon me, but I wanted to tell you that Dr. Watson and I need to return to London briefly. And to ask you if you would permit me to borrow this photograph of your family?"  
  
She took it in her hands with a distant smile. "I remember when this was taken. It was only months before Father left. Take it if it will help, Mr. Holmes. But it is the only photograph that survives of my father. You will..."  
  
"I shall guard it with my life, madam." He smiled and motioned to me with a jerk of his head.  
  
"Oh! You will inform me if you learn anything, won't you, Mr. Holmes?"  
  
He turned back toward her. "You can depend on," he said. "And probably very soon."  
  
Holmes starred at the photograph, hardly even looking up all the long trip home. My curiosity was getting the best of me, but I knew enough of the man to know when I should not bother him. Eventually, the soft rattling of the train and the rapidly-passing scenery gave my eyelids a very heavy feeling and I fell into a superficial sleep where the mind is not conscious. Yet I didn't feel at all rested when we pulled into the station back in the City. Just drained and stiff.  
  
"We've only been gone a day and yet it feels more like a week," I remarked as we caught a cab. "It must be something about this case, but I shall certainly be thankful when you have solved it and I can enjoy a rich supper and long sleep without the murder of Bruce Bishop on my mind."  
  
"Your wish will be granted fairly shortly. However, we must make one stop along the way. Cabby!" He gave an address that sounded familiar.  
  
"Where are we going, Holmes?" I asked.  
  
"To see Bullard, of course."  
  
One of points over my long acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes that has always astounded me (and many things about the man astound me) is that he has an amazing ability to predict just when things are going to go down. As it was that day, when together we came into Bullard's office. Just in time, it appeared. Because as we rushed past the protesting secretary, we found the man hunched over an iron safe, hurriedly stuffing papers into a valise.  
  
"That is not a wise thing to do, sir," Holmes said, grabbing his shoulder with one tight hand. "And if you continue, I shall have to send Watson here for a constable."  
  
"Mr. Holmes!" exclaimed Bullard, his voice nearly cracking as he jumped back. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"The first answer it occurs to me to give, Bullard, is that I am here to ask why you see fit to pack-up on a moment's notice? Especially as just hours ago we learned from Elizabeth Bishop that you were too ill to attend the funeral of your dear friend, Bruce Bishop."  
  
'My God!" I said, thinking that all the pieces may have fallen together. "We certainly did arrive just in time, Holmes. Obviously, he is trying to flee town before we informed the police that he murdered Bishop!"  
  
"Murder! Murder...no, no, sir, I swear that I did not!" Bullard, in much like our first interview, went completely red and flopped into a chair. "I don't know what drove you to that conclusion, but you have erred."  
  
"What drove us to that conclusion?! After we caught you here, red-handed, you would deny doing so? I suppose all of this is you way of cleaning house?" I turned to my friend, feeling not for the first time, my own anger growing. "I think that it is time I did fetch a policeman."  
  
"But I murdered no one, sir! I swear on my life I did not!" Bullard was desperate now, pleading in such a way that I half expected him to get to his knees and beg us.  
  
"You lying blackguard..."  
  
"No, Watson, wait," Holmes said as I headed toward the door to fulfil my threat. "He is telling the truth. He did not kill Bishop. However, he is guilty of a nearly equally distasteful crime."  
  
"Really? And what would that be?"  
  
Holmes narrowed his eyes contemptuously toward our man. "You lied to me yesterday, Bullard. It was obvious to me that you must have known Bishop was alive when he disappeared six years ago. He would have had to have a confederate to pull off a vanishing act for so long."  
  
"You've no proof, sir!" Bullard exclaimed. "And even if I had, there is no crime in it!"  
  
"I am afraid that you are wrong on both counts, my dear sir." Holmes reached into his overcoat and pulled out several pieces of yellowed paper. "Perhaps you recognize this, Bullard? If not, I will tell you. This is the will of the late Warburton Bishop, father to Bruce Bishop. You informed me yesterday that he was left a modest pension by his parent, and it was that which he lived off of during those long years. However, according to this will, the only thing Bishop was left by his father was a series of debts that he was forced to pay as well as some personal property. It seemed highly unluckily that a man who spent his entire career as a merchant fisherman would have much of anything to pass on. You, as his solicitor, would have known this."  
  
Bullard fell into his leather armchair. He was a man easily defeated.  
  
"I never meant to deceive anyone, least of all dear Catherine and her children. But my loyalty to Bruce outweighed my better judgment. He came to me, sir, came to me in a state. He, too, desired not to hurt his wife and children, whom he cared for deeply, but he detested his secluded life. And so we developed a respectable plan. He would leave, and rather than think he had abandoned his family, he allowed himself to be believed dead. I only took enough money from the estate for Bruce to live cautiously. It is what Catherine would have wanted! And, I can assure you, I still had no idea that ever he would have returned. It came as much a surprise to me as to the Bishop children."  
  
"What you admitted to, Bullard, amounts to theft and extortion. You can hardly sit there and say that all you are guilty of is aiding your friend," said I. "Don't you agree, Holmes?"  
  
I expected him to lay out all the other evidence, evidence that would prove beyond a doubt that this man was an insect. A pathetic insect that deserved a long stay in prison. But he did not. "I would suggest to you, Bullard, that you discontinue your plan here," he motioned to the reams of papers, the half filled valise and the empty safe. "Otherwise you may add unlawful flight to your already growing list of felonies." He rose from his seat and headed for the door.  
  
"Wait! Holmes, surely we are not just going to leave him here like this?!" "Now, Watson, if we leave now, we can make it home in time for an early supper. I am sure our dear landlady will have one prepared for us. We are no longer needed here."  
  
Bullard looked as surprised as I felt. "Thank...thank you, Mr. Holmes."  
  
"If I were you, Bullard," Holmes said in a very cold voice. "I would not be so forthcoming with your thanks."  
  
In the carriage on the way back to Baker Street, I was almost afraid to broach the subject of what had just occurred. But I could not resist. "Holmes, I must admit I am a little surprised."  
  
He smiled and handed me several envelopes. "I expected you would be. I hope this helps to clear it up."  
  
I looked down. They were addressed to one 'B. Warburton,' with an address in the south of France. "What are these?" I asked him.  
  
"Last night, when I was busy obtaining this will of Lord Hilton, I stumbled across these letters. It does seem quite unbelievable that Bishop would bring them back with him, and that Bullard did not see fit to burn them. I guess the only explanation can be that they were so confident in their scheme that never did Bullard think they would be discovered. However, I can assure you that several more of these are on their way to Scotland Yard as we speak, and by the end of this day, I expect that are dear solicitor should be in custody."  
  
"But what exactly do these letter say?"  
  
"Nothing more than charges of grand theft and fraud to add to our already air-tight conviction of extortion. It appears that Bullard, who already admitted to being in contact with Bishop, also planned the entire will for Lady Catherine Hilton, including keeping her husband as sole beneficiary. Bishop and he planned for him to return at a time when Lady Catherine was on her deathbed, and then splitting the money."  
  
"And leave Elizabeth and Richard practically penniless?" My contempt for this man was growing by leaps and bounds. "But certainly he seems to be a contemptible enough person to turn on his friend. Perhaps when Bishop returned, he decided that he wanted to keep the entire inheritance for himself. And Bullard was so infuriated that he killed him!"  
  
Holmes scoffed, glaring at me sideways. "I think not, doctor. First of all, considering what Bullard knew, it seems highly unlikely that Bishop would have tried to betray his friend before Lady Catherine had died. Bullard could have changed the will, informed the police, anything. Not to mention the fact that it still does not explain what Tom Kingston is hiding. No, despite his extremely horrific behaviour, I should think that we can safely say he was too cowardly to resort to murder."  
  
"Well, who then?"  
  
He grabbed his stick and pounded it against the roof. "Now, Watson," said he. "Patience is a virtue."  
  
"Papa!"  
  
I had barely stepped foot in 221B when I was bombarded by the flailing limbs of a three-year old. My legs were held in a tight grip that I would not have thought possible of one so small.  
  
"I rather think I shall need my legs back, son." I reached down to pick him up. "I wasn't gone that long, was I?"  
  
"Yes, you were," he said with a pout. "You were gone all night. You weren't here to read to me before I went to bed."  
  
"But Mrs. Hudson was here. Didn't she read to you?"  
  
"She's not you."  
  
I hadn't even thought until this exact moment that this was the first night the boy had spent without either myself, his mother or his nanny. I should have realized after everything that had happened how upsetting that would be. "I am sorry, Josh. But Mr. Holmes needed my help on this case. I didn't know it would require me to be gone overnight. So to make it up to you, as soon as we finish it, you and I will take that outing to the zoo. How is that?"  
  
He beamed and put his arms around my neck. "Do you promise?"  
  
"Of course. A man's word is his bond."  
  
To tell the truth, I was exhausted at this point. I would have promised the moon if only I could relax in front of the fire in the sitting room with a spot of dinner and some strong tea, and then fallen asleep at an early hour. This case, unlike most in Holmes' absorbing past, had not filled me with a fascination to watch him solve it, but rather a strong desire for it to be over. I could have passed it off to the recent events in my life, or the fact that I was not as young as I used to be, or any number of falsities. But I knew that was not the case. Something had happened. Something that I could not name. And even I had enough foresight to see that whatever it was, it was not finished. I cannot say that it scared me, or worried me, although perhaps it did. But all I knew of at that moment was that it bothered me somewhere deep inside my very being. My very soul sensed it. And I was so exhausted.  
  
"Come, Josh. Let's go and sit a spell in front of the fire and you can practice reading out loud to me." But we had hardly gotten started with Mother Goose when Holmes dashed in the room.  
  
"I've asked Mrs. Hudson to send us up some tea. I must see this specimen of hair under my microscope."  
  
"Uncle!" Josh said, looking up from his book. "Papa and I are going to the zoo after your case."  
  
He looked at the boy as if he hadn't the slightest idea of what a zoo even was. "Zoo? Oh, indeed, John Sherlock."  
  
The boy was watching with overtly curious eyes as Holmes took out the handkerchief of hair and the photograph. "Can I help?" He asked.  
  
"Hmm..." He was peering into his machine, adjusting the knobs carefully. "I was right, Watson. It is indeed ink. A cheap quality printer's ink at that."  
  
"Really?" Said I, stifling a yawn. "That's fascinating, Holmes."  
  
"Uncle? Can't I help?"  
  
Holmes sighed, coming over to the hearth where he picked up his calabash and filled it to the brim. "There is still something missing, though. I cannot believe it is taking this long for me to see it."  
  
"I want to help, uncle!" He grabbed Holmes' coattails and gave a mighty tug.  
  
"Josh, quit pestering him. He is trying to think. Here now, just be quiet for a few minutes, and then you can have some tea with us."  
  
Holmes looked at him as if he were seeing him for the first time. "No, no, Watson. You can help me, my boy. If nothing else, it is excellent mental training. Now take this photograph, and have a seat."  
  
"Come now, old fellow, what do you honestly think he will be able to see that you will not?"  
  
Holmes curled up in his armchair across from me. "Do try and have a little faith, my friend."  
  
Josh took the photograph in his chubby little hands and studied it so intently that I had to smile. In retrospect, I realize that it is I who was the naïve one. I should have known better than to doubt my child. Even at the age of three.  
  
"What do you observe?" Holmes asked him.  
  
"They're happy."  
  
"Yes. That is obvious. But you shall have to go deeper than that."  
  
"Well, the women are pretty."  
  
Holmes snorted as I laughed. "That is of little consequence. Try harder, boy."  
  
Josh threw down the picture and crossed his arms. "I can't. It's too hard to adduce with just pictures, Uncle."  
  
"It's alright, son," I said and turned to Holmes. "You expect too much of him. He is only a small child, for Heaven's sake."  
  
My friend slammed his pipe down on the end-table. "You mustn't allow him to give up, Watson! He has the rare genetic disposition for logic, but it will grow soft like any muscle if not properly exercised. Now, John Sherlock, tell me what you see."  
  
If I hadn't been so tired due to the previous 48 hours, I would have allowed the energy to be angry at his patronizing attitude. I was the boy's father, after all. But because I was rightly done, I just waved him away with a snort. Holmes could play teacher if he desired, but all I could think on was resting my heavy eyelids.  
  
"Well, the boy and the girl are brother and sister. They must 'cause they look so alike."  
  
"Yes, yes. That's a start."  
  
"The woman looks sad. No, she looks not well. Sick. She is very thin and has darkness around her eyes."  
  
"Excellent, my boy!"  
  
"That's all I can tell, Uncle. It hurts my eyes to stare so much. Except I think the man is a sailor."  
  
"A sailor? However did you deduce that?"  
  
"He has one of those boat-things on his wrist." Josh pointed to a spot on the photo. "At least I think that is what it is. I can't amember what they're called."  
  
"An anchor..." Holmes reached into his waistcoat and pulled out his lens, squinted into the photo with it for several horrendously long seconds. Then, out of no where, he sprang to his feet. He was pale as a ghost and looked at the point of faint. "My God...Watson, how could I have missed it?"  
  
"Missed? Missed what, old man?" I asked drowsily.  
"It all may be for naught...come, Watson! And for God's sake hurry! Oh...and your revolver!"  
  
He was nearly out the sitting room door and I hadn't yet moved from my armchair. "Holmes, what's this about? It's nearly dinner-time. Where do you wish us to go?" His energy was making me even more weary just watching him race about.  
  
Because I had yet to move, he swiped up my army revolver from its place in the desk and put it in his overcoat pocket. "To Black Bishop, of course."  
  
"But...but we've only just come from there!"  
  
Holmes' face was horrendously pale, a virtual feat in a man with little colour to begin with. I swear now, dear reader, in retrospect, that he must have somehow foreseen what was to come, although how I still cannot say. "My dear doctor," he said in a low voice. "If we fail to get there in time, we may be witness to yet another tragedy at Dartmoor."  
  
A fast cab and half a guinea and Holmes and I were seated in a busy train heading once again for the moors. Even Josh had been too surprised to protest over our less than planned departure. I had only time to quickly signal to Mrs. Hudson as we ran through the front door. The only thing that remained to be explained was what Holmes had seen in that photograph that was leading us back to Black Bishop at break-neck speed. So in other words-everything. However, we just made it to Charring Cross in time for the 5:40 departure, and had not time to secure a private compartment. So crowded amongst an elderly chap with thick eyeglasses and a nurse with two young children, when I asked Holmes what the Devil was going on, he gave me a quick jerk of his head.  
  
"Not here," he muttered.  
  
How I ever managed to sit there in oblivion for three hours, I shall never know, but somehow I did. Never have I checked my watch so often in so short a length of time.  
  
As the train slowly pulled into the station, a grey misty rain had surrounded the landscape, perfectly matching my already troubled mood. I had imagined we might face difficulty obtaining passage, as not many cabs wait at this station, but Holmes' eagle eyes spied one the second the compartment door was opened and I was practically dragged toward it. "Black Bishop at once!" He said.  
  
"Here, what you wanna go way out there for?" The cabbie asked. It was, no doubt, not a common destination.  
  
"Just take us there, damnit man! And don't spare the whip!" Holmes climbed in and we were practically off before I could even sit. I hadn't seen him this keyed-up in quite some time.  
  
"Alright, now..." I said, as the carriage jerked us forward, at speeds even more rapid than Miss Bishop's horses. "You must tell me what is going on, Holmes. What did you see in that photograph? Or rather knowing you, my dear chap, what I mean to ask is what is in that photograph that caused you to act as you did?"  
  
"You know, Watson...there is a reason I have been having so much difficulty with this case. At first I thought it was...well, something else. But mostly, it is because I have been looking at it all wrong." He starred at me with haunting eyes, and handed me the Bishop family portrait. "This is the only picture that survives of Bruce Bishop. That made it exceedingly difficult. If it hadn't been for your son, doctor...I may never have seen it."  
  
I was at the point of exasperation by now. "Seen what, man?!"  
  
He pointed at Bruce Bishop's wrist. The arm that was rested on his wife's shoulder. The sleeves were too short on him and I could just see a blur on the man's wrist. "Use this," Holmes said, handing his lens to me. With it, I was able to see more clearly. It was a tattoo. A tattoo of what I was fairly certain was an anchor. Yet I must admit the significance of it was lost. I handed both back to the man. "So? The man has a tattoo of an anchor? What is that supposed to mean?"  
  
"Supposed to mean? Why, doctor, it means the case is solved! However young Josh saw it with his bare eyes, I shall never know, but thank God he did! Doctor, don't you remember our inspection of the body? That body had no such tattoo!"  
  
My mind was so befuddled that still I couldn't comprehend what this meant. "So...we missed a tattoo at the examination. How does that amount to the case being solved?"  
  
"Watson...I did not 'miss' a tattoo. I would not miss something so obvious. The body at the police constabulary was not the same man as in this photograph."  
  
I must have been staring hard and unbelievingly because Holmes added:  
  
"It was not Bruce Bishop that was murdered five nights ago."  
  
"But...how...who, then?"  
  
Holmes leaned back in his seat and rubbed at his temples. His hand was shaking slightly. "I could explain it, but then, in a few moments, I would have to do it all over again. Possess your soul in patience, and hope that what I fear is occurring at Black Bishop is not."  
  
"And what is that?" asked I, not sure I wanted to know the response.  
  
Holmes' eyes fell deeply into mine. "Another death."  
  
The second the obstinate cabby arrived at the entrance to the estate, Holmes bounded out, throwing some coin at him. Yet he and I had hardly cleared the horses' tracks as our client, Elizabeth Bishop came running over. "Mr. Holmes! Dr. Watson! But how did you get my telegram so quickly? I've only just sent it!"  
  
"I received no telegram," Holmes said. "And why would you send one?"  
  
He dark eyes clouded over, becoming wide as eggs. "Then how did you know Tom escaped?"  
  
I was sure that Holmes must have been as shocked as I, although it was rare that he let such things show in his stony expression. "Tom Kingston escaped? I had considered it...but what is really important is finding your brother. We must find Richard immediately."  
  
"But, why..." However, before Holmes could answer, we heard a team charging up the fields, blowing thick clouds of dust into the already choking, freezing air. From 50 feet I could see the red angry puff of Inspector Clayton's entire body. Like a rabid dog, he rushed toward us, claws and yellow teeth barred.  
  
"Where is he?! I tell you..." but then he seemed to notice Holmes and I standing there. "You! You, sir! You are somehow responsible for this, aren't you?"  
  
I stepped forward, a military instinct. I could not think past the possibility that he may draw his weapon on my friend. He was certainly angry enough to. But, to my very grateful heart and mind, he did not. Holmes squeezed my arm, and I knew that he realized what I had been willing to do. This was his way of thanking me. "I assure you, Clayton, I have no idea where Kingston is hiding. Or how he escaped, for that matter. What I can tell you is that he is the least of your problems at the moment. We need to find Richard Bishop. And I have a good idea at where we may."  
  
"And I tell you, Mr. Holmes, that"-  
  
Suddenly, just off in the distance where the tree line broke, a loud, clear shot could be heard. The retort of a revolver.  
  
Miss Bishop screamed. The inspector and his two constables looked jolted. I myself felt a cold shiver pass through my entire body. Only Holmes was unperturbed. He ground his jaw down angrily that his warnings had been unheeded, and motioned toward the coppice. "Inspector, I fear that your yammering may have cost you your suspect. Come, all of you, and speed is a necessity!"  
  
Holmes, easily that most athletically built, sped toward the pines in the lead, with myself struggling against the unknown and my wounded leg to match his speed. Clayton and his hounds were right behind me, near enough that I thought I could feel their moist breath on the back of my neck. Miss Bishop, holding the hem of her dress high, carried up the rear.  
  
Pines boughs whipped me in the face, and twice I had to stop dead-on to avoid falling down slight inclines. My boots sank in the unstable ground, and in the growing dark of the sky, it was nearly pitch black. I quickly lost track of my friend's lean form right in front of me, as did Clayton I fear. "Over here!" I heard him yell. "Watson, quickly!"  
  
Somehow I found them, just in front of the stream where we stood hardly more than 24 hours ago. Although this time it was a much more foul and ugly picture. Holmes was standing submissively in front of an angry Richard Bishop, who in his hands held a British Bulldog level at my friend. On the ground not five feet next to him, lay Thomas Kingston.  
  
Ignoring the shock, I immediately went to him. He had been shot through- and-through in his upper chest, between the lung and scapula. It was bleeding, but not profusely. Miss Bishop was there suddenly, running toward us. "Oh, God...oh, my God...Tom, no!" She collapsed on the ground with tears running down her face, grasping Kingston's hand on the unwounded side.  
  
"It's alright, Miss Bishop," said I, although in truth I thought everything could not be further from that. "The shot pierced the pectoralis major, and possibly the second or third rib, but it appears to have missed the lung and all the major arteries. He will live, but it is a necessity that he get back to the house where I can tend to him properly."  
  
"I'm afraid not," Richard Bishop said. "None of you can leave. You...you know too much."  
  
"Richard! But why...how could you?" Miss Bishop's face was dreadfully pale. I would not have been the least surprised if she had fainted. The shock of all this was great enough for me, but this was her family. Her brother had just shot the man she loved. Automatically, I reached out to take her hand. What else could I do?  
  
"It is quite simple Miss Bishop, how he could," Holmes said. "This is not the first time he has attempted to kill someone. I am only thankful that this time he was not successful. Unfortunately for your late uncle, however, he succeeded in stabbing him to death."  
  
"What are you talking about, Mr. Holmes?" Richard asked. "I fear the pressure has gotten to you. Yes, I did it. But it was my father that I killed, not my uncle."  
  
"I am afraid not, Master Bishop. Your sister didn't know that Lord Michael Hilton existed, but you did. You proved it right then by not questioning me as to an uncle you never knew you had. No doubt your mother mentioned him to you. She felt guilty that your late grandfather alienated him from the family. However, I do not doubt that you never realized it was he you killed five nights ago. And not Bruce Bishop, your father."  
  
Next to me, Kingston groaned, almost as if knew what was happening. He seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness. I took off my overcoat and folded it into a sort of sling, laying him on one side and pressing his wound into the other. "You do realize, Richard, that this man will bleed to death if I cannot operate? You will be responsible for another death...hold on, Holmes, did you just say that this boy killed his uncle and not his father?" Yes, he must have. In the carriage on the way to Black Bishop he had said that Bruce Bishop was not the victim. But still, it made little sense to me. How could it have been Clive that was killed and not Bishop?  
  
"I did, Watson. I should have realized it from the moment I examined the body. Do you recall telling me that you felt it strange that the man died, as although he had five stab wounds, none of them was especially life threatening?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"That was the piece de la resistance. It was so strange, though, that I didn't register it as important until it was almost too late. You see, the man who Master Bishop killed had something very serious in common with him. He was a sufferer of haemophilia. The reason that Clive died was because the wounds, while not especially deep or penetrating, would not stop bleeding. It did not take but a few hours of his lying there, getting weaker and weaker, for him to literally bleed out. That also explains why the room was so strange. There was some splatter, but mostly just pools of dried blood. If a major artery had been penetrated than the splatter would have been far more severe. It was not. This, coupled with the examination of the body, is unquestioning proof that the victim suffered from a rather serious form of haemophilia."  
  
"But...but, Holmes, how do you know that Bishop himself did not suffer from the disorder? After all, if his son does..." but then I remembered something. Something from my medical school days that I never would have thought I would need to remember. "Ah...now I see. I recall a medical man early of this century, about 1810 I should think. A French fellow, no American...well, his name escapes me. But he proved that haemophilia was a disease that was transmitted through the maternal lines to males only. Therefore, Richard inherited the disease through his mother. And that means that it is likely a male on her side of the family would also suffer from the disorder."  
  
"Yes," Holmes replied. "You have it, doctor. I did consider for a time the rather rare possibility that Bishop himself may also have been haemophiliac, but it would have been so remote a chance...until I saw the photograph."  
  
"What photograph?" Richard asked in quite a soft voice. He still held the revolver at my friend, but he looked as though he may have forgotten what to do with it.  
  
"The only surviving one of your entire family, boy. In it, with a lens, you can clearly see that on his upper wrist your father has a tattoo of an anchor. The man you killed did not. I am sure that he must have taken great pains to always wear long-sleeves, and to keep his cuff-links buttoned when you were around, on the off chance that you remembered this tattoo. It was the one damning piece of evidence, the one thing that Clive could not risk duplicating in his otherwise flawless impersonation of your father, as no haemophiliac who suffered from the disorder as severely as he would risk the chance at tattooing himself."  
  
"No!" Richard exclaimed. "That doesn't make any sense! You and Dr. Watson are just trying to confuse me!" The hand with the gun shook slightly.  
  
"We are doing nothing of the kind," said Holmes. "Let me explain it to you this way, then. Your uncle was disinherited by your grandfather for something he did which the Earl of Castor called a 'disgusting life choice.' A few years later, your father and his friend, Ambrose Bullard, developed a plan that would set them for life. Bishop would pretend to disappear on one of his many fishing expeditions, and would remain in carefree exile until such a time that his wife was close enough to death that he could return, pretending to want to seek forgiveness, but really wanting Lady Catherine's fortune. It was Bullard's job to make sure the lady never changed her will, and to siphon money from the estate for Bishop to live off of. He wrote his friend regularly, giving him information on his wife's condition and his children. For this, he would receive half the residue of the estate. Unfortunately for Bishop, what really happened was a miraculous chance that he ran into the brother-in-law he never knew he had. After getting him drunk, Clive no doubt learned of this carefully laid plan, and decided that this was his ticket. He studied Bishop long enough to perfect his imitation, learning what he needed, and then he murdered him. Bullard, the ideal fool, never knew that all those long six years the two spent waiting, he was providing Clive with everything he needed to pull off the greatest acting job of his career. He dyed his hair with ink to make it darker, I found traces of it still at the examination; tanned his skin to match that of a man who spend much time in the sun. He was of similar height and weight. He grew long sideburns and practiced his voice and walk until there was no one who would be able to tell that Clive was not Bishop. Any little discrepancy could be passed off to the passage of time. Except, of course, the tattoo. And then the letter came that Clive had been waiting for-Lady Catherine was slipping. Not expected to live through the month-now was the time to return. And so he did. His daughter welcomed her beloved father home with open arms, believing the whole thing to be a miracle. However, what Clive was not counting on was that his son, or rather nephew, held so much resentment for his father to begin with for leaving, but learning that he had abandoned his beloved mother-well, that was more than you could take, wasn't it, Richard? You would not let your mother be thought a fool. No doubt you realized what you were doing was a horrible crime-both in the eyes of the law and the eyes of God. Yet, your love of your mother won out.  
  
Richard was shaking profusely now.  
  
"You took the knife that Tom Kingston had given you as a gift, perhaps not even realizing that they would suspect him, and waited until you were certain he would be asleep. You crept into his room and stabbed him five times while he slept. Clive was so shocked that he didn't even scream. You opened the window hoping that the police would think a burglar had done it. And then you left Clive there, bleeding towards his death, all the time thinking that this was your father you had just killed. A just death, as you told me the other day."  
  
"My God..." Miss Bishop muttered, having been sitting holding my sweating hand in a stunned silence. "My God, Richard...how could you? How could you do it?"  
  
"You do not understand, Lizzie!" Richard screamed. "You have the luxury of not understanding! I see her, day after day, our mother! It was he leaving that drove our mother to despair and exasperated her condition! He is responsible for her pain! I only did what the Bible commands. And that is an eye for an eye."  
  
I jumped to my feet, feeling uncontrolled anger at this. "What right have you, boy? What right have you to have the audacity to proclaim judgment on a man? Your father may not have been innocent, nor Clive for that matter, but you have no right to act as judge and jury against them!"  
  
"I am well aware of what the consequences will be for my actions, Dr. Watson," the boy said. "I accept the fact that I may face eternal damnation. But as I told Mr. Holmes just yesterday, some things are more important than one's self."  
  
"But Dicky...you'll be hanged for what you did! Don't you realize that?" Miss Bishop was also on her feet by now. Hot tears were beginning to fall from those beautiful eyes.  
  
Yet he looked so calm, Master Bishop, standing there with an even expression and lit eyes, I wondered as to his sanity. How could he hold a gun on three people, one of whom was his sister, and speak about not caring that he may go to the gallows and Hell for what he had done. He could he...but then I realized how he could...what he had intended all along...  
  
"No, Lizzie," he said steadily. "There is no hope for me now. So I shall show my duty to our creator by accepting the inevitable. I lift my eyes on high and see.[3] It is for he, now." He raised the gun to his temple.  
  
"Hold it there!"  
  
Clayton and his constables, who had missed the entire dialogue up until now, were there suddenly, running down the mire toward us, with revolver's drawn. Richard, confused, lowered his gun. And then the next moment was so rapid and confusing that I hardly know how to fit it all in.  
  
"No, Clayton!" Holmes shouted, seeing their weapons. He reached into his overcoat pocket. He never should have. I saw a flash of silver. It was my army revolver.  
  
Richard Bishop saw the gun at the exact same moment as I.  
  
He turned toward my friend.  
  
"Holmes, get down!" I shouted.  
  
I could say that it all happened in slow motion, but it's not so. In fact, it happened rather quickly. I ran toward the boy, not even thinking that I could be throwing my life away. His dark, angry eyes went completely wide as he saw what I was doing. I hit him hard full on, his small body flinging backward with the impact of my much heavier one.  
  
I didn't even hear the shot.  
  
But I sensed it, none-the-less. I think that is what war does to a man. After awhile, he stops hearing the retorts, yet knows when they go off. I felt the stinging burn of the bullet, impacting the side of my back. It was a horrible pain, worse I think than my previous gunshot wounds. Perhaps I yelled out, but I can't say for certain. Someone, it would have to be Elizabeth Bishop, did however. To this day, I can still hear her horrified scream echo in my ears. I recall that I fell, head first, into the stream. As my head went under the murky water, the first thing that occurred to me was that I may drown before the bullet had time to do its work. But I did not.  
  
Instead, someone had me under the arms and was pulling me out of the arctic water. Never had I felt so cold. Thick droplets of water that had nearly turned to ice were pouring off of me. That feeling of cold is the last thing I remember, for then everything turned dark.  
  
There was a voice, though.  
  
He said:  
  
"No...no, oh God, what have I done? John..."  
  
Poor Watson...I know, I know...I'm evil...but in a good way right? (  
  
----------------------- [1] A kind of lantern [2] cheap wood [3] A distortion of Isaiah 40:25. The actual passage reads "Lift up your eyes on high and see; who created thee?" 


	7. Chapter 7

Thanks to everyone who reviewed, especially teriyakikat for the awesome fan art that adorns my wallpaper. I hope, as always, that everyone enjoys this chapter!  
  
I was shot in the back through the Pectoralis minor, and the offending bullet continued its destructive path through the ninth and tenth ribs, just below the scapula. It punctured my diaphragm where it finally lodged next to my spleen. It missed my heart by mere inches. It was the third time a bullet was taken from my body, the first time, however, from my own gun. I was taken to the nearest hospital in Plymouth, of which I have little or no memory: a few second long periods of consciousness in which all I remember are light and intense heat. I later learned this was due to a staphylococcus[1] infection after the operation and a 104 degree fever. After a week that did not exist in my mind, I was transferred against the wishes of the doctors to London's Charring Cross Hospital. This was done at the insistence of Holmes. I know this despite his claims that the physicians declared me well enough to make the 300 km trip.  
  
It is imperative to discuss what happened when at last I had healed enough to remember myself. However, first I will have to tell you what happened to my dear friend while I lay too ill to know him. Despite the fact that I didn't witness these events in person, I learned from firstly Holmes and later from Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft Holmes, and Josh what happened. By combining their stories I feel I have a good grasp on the reality of it, however painful.  
  
Holmes arrived home to Baker Street late the second evening. He hadn't sent a telegram telling Mrs. Hudson and Josh what had happened, so no doubt they were reduced to a state of uncomfortable ignorance about my condition. Or even my whereabouts. Holmes later confessed to me, in a rare moment of weakness, that had it not been for a doctor asking about next of kin, he may have forgotten to return to London at all.  
  
It was just after ten on a heavy, wet night when the cab clopped up to 221 B. The bustle of crowds had worn considerably, reduced to only the drunks and unfortunates wandering the damp streets. For perhaps this one and only time, my friend did not look out of place among them. After two days, he was dishevelled , unshaven and nearly disembodied. That was how Mrs. Hudson described him anyhow, the second her eyes fell on him.  
  
"I tell you, doctor," she later told me, "never have I've seen him like that. Never could I have imagined him capable of such...horrid fear. For that's what is was, sir. Fear."  
  
Of course I, who had spent the better part of my life with the man, had seen him express fright before, however infrequently. The case of the Baskervilles comes to mind and perhaps the one about the speckled band. I re-call his hand shaking as he snuffed out the light and in the dark of Helen Stoner's room, as we waited for the unknown monster. Yet I trust Mrs. Hudson's cool nerves and eagle eyes. If horrid fear was what she named him that night, that that must be what he showed.  
  
Our landlady was in the kitchen, scouring dishes in her never ending quest for perfect cleanliness. She was already in her nightgown and kerchief. I should think that, although she would not admit it, not knowing where her tenets were was causing her a bit of insomnia.  
  
She screamed when he appeared. This was the second time in as many months that he emerged from nowhere. "Mr. Holmes! Oh, Lord..."  
  
"I am...I will be fine, Mrs. Hudson," said my friend, attempting a re- assuring look. He fell heavily into a chair, ignoring the hand that she offered.  
  
"My word, Mr. Holmes! You are a sight! You look like you could do with some strong coffee."  
  
"No," he replied. "No coffee. It will take something far stronger than that to sustain me through this night."  
  
But the faithful Mrs. Hudson already had a kettle on to percolate. "What has happened to you, Mr. Holmes? You look as though you have seen the Devil himself. And where is the good doctor? His son was nearly prostrate with worry...I do wish he wouldn't run after you like that without some sort of warning. I know how hard it is for him to raise a child alone, but he is all the boy has..."  
  
"He has been shot, Mrs. Hudson. He has been shot! Do stop going on! He has...he was shot." _I shot him_. _He is lying there because of me. I pulled the trigger._ That was what was going through his mind. I can nearly see him, sitting there still in suit and tie, trying to be composed, trying to fight the emotion, trying to keep the cold familiarness of safe logic. And I can see him losing that battle.  
  
"Shot? Whatever do you mean...oh, no. No, surely, sir, he is not..." Mrs. Hudson herself collapsed into a chair then, her face one of horror herself as she stared at her tenet with a hand to her mouth. The very worst tenet in London, and yet, I know that deep within that stubborn Scottish temperament, she cared for the both of us deeply. It is expressed in the little ways: hot water, good food, caring for my child, and of course, as much emotion as a woman is allowed to express when one she knows and cares for could no longer be there.  
  
"No, Mrs. Hudson...he is not dead," said Holmes in a monotone. "I am sorry I didn't telegram you...I just...I was busy, you see...now, if you'll excuse me, I feel I need a bath and change of clothes."  
  
"But, Mr. Holmes!" Our landlady exclaimed, grabbing his arm. "What of the doctor? Oh, and what of that poor little child? Already lost his mother, the little lamb, and now his father..."  
  
"Mrs. Hudson, he has not lost his father, damn it!"  
  
I guess I can say that very statement is one of the best testaments to my friend's nerves. He became angry with our landlady in the past, and indeed at women in general, but this anger was nearly always bottled-up inside, or expressed only to me. It is not proper for gentlemen to yell at a lady, of course, and especially to swear. But I dare think that right then, if Mrs. Hudson had gone on, Holmes may have done even more than yell. To think of my son...  
  
"I...I only meant, Mr. Holmes, that it will pain Josh to have to hear this," Mrs. Hudson explained, not entirely sure who she was explaining to. "I didn't mean...I know that this must be ever so hard for you, sir...you and the doctor are quite close, of course."  
  
Holmes' eyes became round with fear and his jaw clinched. Shakily, he reached for the banister to assist him on the way to the sitting room. "Do not concern yourself...I will tell the boy. And as for Watson..." He shook his head. How in the world could he possibly explain? "Good-night, Mrs. Hudson." He settled on, and took the stairs as fast as his exhausted body was capable of.  
  
I have often, throughout my years of chronicling Sherlock Holmes, bestowed him with many mental abilities that ordinary human beings seemingly do not possess. One of these abilities is that of anticipation. He would no doubt argue the matter with me, claiming that it was reasoning, logic: that by building a chain link by link you will inevitably end up at the conclusion. However, I must disagree. All truly great detectives must be able to anticipate when the crime is going down. Holmes has this ability. And he is not the only soul at 221B who does. My son possesses it as well. It was for him something that strengthened over his life to practically a sixth-sense. It worked for him that night. Perhaps especially that night. But I digress.  
  
After a scouring hot bath that did little to cleanse himself to satisfaction, Holmes had poured himself a liberal glass of brandy (at least he claimed brandy, I am more inclined to believe it was whiskey) and was seated in his well-worn armchair, staring into the red ambers of a dwindling fire. He enjoyed alcohol, port wine or something Italian, but he never drank to simply drink. I have never known him to use alcohol to escape before, but perhaps the events of that night (and the ones shortly to come) were more emotion than even his mind could fence in. I know they were. What really clinches it is that, for once, he was not smoking. He was doing nothing but sitting, staring, and occasionally swallowing more courage.  
  
"Uncle?"  
  
Holmes squinted up to see our namesake standing next to his chair, holding his stuffed dog and looking very much like three years-old for once. I can safely say that this was not a moment my friend was looking forward to.  
  
"What are you doing out of bed? Have you any idea as to the time?" Anger was always a useful shield.  
  
"The big hand is on the 3," Josh remarked, "and the small hand is on the eleven. That means it's...um..."  
  
"Past the time that you should be asleep."  
  
"But Uncle...there is something wrong with you. I want to know what it is. You an' Papa were gone for two entire whole days without telling me why. And now you look sick. There must be something wrong."  
  
Holmes stared off into the now empty glass reflecting the fire in the clear crystal. "If sickness is sorrow, than all the drugs in the world could not kill the disease. 'It is sorrow that makes us all children again, destroys all intellect. The wisest know nothing.'[2] That is the hardest part, John Sherlock. That is the hardest part."  
  
Josh gripped Blackie tightly against his small body. "I could go and get Papa for you. He is the best doctor in London. I think you need some medicine."  
  
"No, John back," Holmes called as the boy headed toward the door. "Your father is not here. And while I intended not to have to explain so late, it is probably better now."  
  
"Should I use adduction to figure out what it is?"  
  
I really think that both statement both pained and humoured my dear Holmes at the same time. Josh, at moments such as these, did try ever so hard to emulate the great master. "No, I think not. You had better let me...I had better just explain it to you."  
  
"Okay," the boy replied, climbing onto his lap as if expecting some marvellous story to be told. And once again, although physically I was absent, I saw Holmes searching for the right words to explain something emotional. Something he had tried so hard to fight for so many years.  
  
"My dear boy," Holmes said. "Despite the rare powers with which you have been endowed; powers, that mind, I shall not allow to go undeveloped, I find that I do not know how to explain..." He couldn't stop looking at Josh's eyes. They always did have a special glow in the man's presence.  
  
"You see, it is hard to know just how to say such things..." _Especially when it is I who has done it.  
_  
"There is a reason that Wat...your father and I have been gone..." _Yes, a very good reason. I shot him with his own gun. And now he lies fighting for his life.  
_  
"Damnit..." He swore softly through clinched teeth. He couldn't say it. He couldn't bear to hurt my son. After everything, for the first time, I saw the makings of paternal feelings in the man. It would not be the last time, though, of this I can assure you.  
  
"Uncle," said Josh in a small voice. "Did something happen to Papa?"  
  
"I...yes. Yes, my boy. Something did. You see, on my last case...the man that we were after...he was not, frankly, sane. Your father...  
  
_Bang!_  
  
_God, what do I do? John...  
  
Why on Earth did he step in front of me? What would possess him to do it?_  
  
"Your father saved my life, John Sherlock. This man, he had a gun. He would have shot me. However, at the last second Watson stepped in front of me. He took the bullet..."  
  
_Liar! Why are you lying to the child? Are you ashamed to admit the truth? Is it logical to spare his feelings?_  
  
Holmes took in a deep breath of alcohol-tinged air. His logical, normally cold mind was rebelling, and for once, he could not handle it. Too much had happened. And he knew that too much was going to.  
  
"Is he going to come back?"  
  
"What?" asked Holmes, taken off-guard.  
  
"Papa. Is he going to come back? Or did he go to Heaven like Mummy?" The boy's voice was barely audible.  
  
"Of course he is going to come back. I have known your father for years, and never have a known a little thing like a bullet wound to put a stopper in his fortitude. You can rest you mind to that, boy...no, he will back. I am certain. He...he must. Yes. I am sure..."  
  
"Are you alright, Uncle? You look...I wish Papa...I..." Tears began to well up in his eyes and his face flushed pink. "It isn't fair!" he cried, and like any small child would do, threw his arms around the nearest thing of comfort. His dear 'uncle.' I could nearly feel that pain. The poor child had just lost his mother and now nearly his father as well. I would have given all that I owned, all that I ever owned, to be there at that moment to comfort him, to reassure him. It pained the wound in my body when later I learned of this moment. I think it is the curse of every parent that even to this day I feel a slight twinge whenever I learn of pain within my child.  
  
But it was left to Holmes, who just months ago never would have imagined that he would have to comfort a crying three year-old, was sitting there fighting for control himself, at first not sure what to do. Finally, after the stiffness of surprise wore off, he pressed one long shaking hand on to the boy's back. Whatever doubt remained that he would be able to control this new emotion within him was swallowed up right then, and he knew. He knew that from that moment on, the great mind was going to be forced to house two attics. One of knowledge, fact and cold logic, and one of that abhorrent sentiment previously hiding only in the shadowy recesses of the brain: that of love.  
  
Holmes confessed to me later that he could think of nothing to say. The man who had solved the most obscure cryptogram, who had met several houses of royalty including our own; the man so well-read he could quote extensively from the Bible to Carlyle, from Darwin to Poe, could not, now, think of a single word of comfort to a shattered child. He simply sat, frozen in motion holding my child against him. It could have been then that truly he realized there was no conceivable way his life could stay the same.  
  
When at last Josh stopped crying, he didn't move from my friend's lap, but rather lay limp as a rag doll, exhausted from what had happened. Holmes could not have moved if he wanted to.  
  
"I'm not a perfect person, John Sherlock," he said in a strange, soothing voice. "It is harder for me then for most men to come to terms with that because there are expectations put on me. Some I have Dr. John Watson, my own biographer to thank for." He paused to rest his eyes with a languid smile.  
  
"It isn't as though I blame him, however. But when you are described as devoid of human emotion, and thousands of people read it, then that is what they expect of you. God above knows that I would give all to have that mind. There are times I think I can almost obtain it. But in the end, I know it is a fleeting wish. I know it every time I...every time, well, you needn't hear this."  
  
"Uncle?" Josh asked sleepily. "Are you glad that Papa and I are here with you?"  
  
"Certainly I am...why shouldn't I be?"  
  
"I don't know...when will Papa be home?" "Soon, I should think. Very soon."  
  
"Should I make him a card?"  
  
"I'm sure he would like that. And now, I think that you had better go back to your room. It's late."  
  
"Please," said Josh, taking his hand. "Can't I stay here with you? Just tonight. I don't want to be alone way up there by myself."  
  
Holmes was too tired to argue. Normally, when he things to occupy his mind, he would never allow himself the luxury of sleep. Sleep was saved as a filler for the long days of lethargy, when his body and mind were spent, and he cared not for the bleak existence of life. But now, after sitting in a hospital for 48 hours practically catatonic, he found that he needed more than anything a few hours to forget the present. Picking up the boy, he placed him on the wicker love seat and covered him with an afghan. He would sleep in his chair tonight, by the fire in a position that most people would find painful. But it was in the sitting room that both he and I found the most comfortable.  
  
"Uncle?"  
  
"Oh, do go to sleep, Josh..." Holmes said with a sigh.  
  
"Can I just ask you one last question?"  
  
"As if I could refuse you..."  
  
"You like me'n Papa a lot, don't you?"  
  
"Yes...of course I do. Now, to sleep." " But...do you love us?"  
  
Holmes' eyes flashed over to him. "Why would you ask such a thing?" His voice was much higher than usual.  
  
But Josh was far too young to see the hidden meaning of this innocent question. "Because we love you."  
  
"John Sherlock...there is something that you must understand," said Holmes, suddenly feeling helplessly awake. "It is not considered appropriate in our society for a man to express love. Alright, exceptions can be made. Men are allowed to love their wives, children, their mothers...but for a man to tell another man...well, whether he does or not, he isn't supposed to..."  
  
"Uncle?"

"Yes?"  
  
"Never mind. I'm going to sleep. Good-night." He put Blackie under his head and stuffed several fingers in his mouth.  
  
Holmes reached for his decanter and poured himself another swallow. As it burned its way down, he laid his head against the back of the chair and stared at Reichenbach above him on the hearth. "Yes...good-night. For it is only at night that I should sit and think on nothing and everything at all. Love. Some would call it naught and some would call it all. But in the end... 'If this be love, to live a living death, then do I love and draw this weary breath.'[3]

Holmes later told me of that night with Josh when I came home from the hospital. That, added to what Josh and Mrs. Hudson said, gave me what I have just described. For years, I knew little else about the two weeks I lay comatose to the world. It was years later that I learned of another conversation with Holmes. This one, however, was with a much different recipient: his brother Mycroft.  
  
The Holmes' brothers always appeared as singularly odd characters to me in that the lived mere miles from each other, yet saw each other so infrequently that I had known Holmes 5 years[4] before ever I even learned of the man's existence.  
  
The brother's were alike in several key ways: both lived fairly isolated lives, had few friends, no interest in the fair sex (or so I assume) and both were extremely logic-minded. The differences between them I can name in two: Sherlock had the perspicacity and vigour to put to use that God- given logic, and he had also, somewhere along our long acquaintance, developed a need that Mycroft did not possess. The need to not be alone. Sometime in their lives Mycroft and Sherlock must have decided that never would they share their lives with anyone. What lonely or disastrous event in their youth propelled them to this end, at the time I wasn't sure, but in all that I knew of their relationship, it seemed odd that Sherlock would chose Mycroft as his confessor. However, after retrospect, I realized why he did. He had no one else.  
  
Mycroft Holmes, as you may recall is one of the most important men in government, a man with such a brain for fact that he could become the very voice for government when disputes erupted. He was a huge man, that did not look much like his brother until you came to the eyes. Penetrating grey that seemed to have the ability to pear into one's very essence. He could have become a detective of even greater reputation than his younger brother had he desired it, but as Sherlock told me, he had no ambition in that matter. He walked every day from his rooms to Whitehall, and then to his club, taking no other exercise, and spent his days reading newspapers, absorbing facts, eating rich foods and sleeping, pretending that society as a whole did not exist until he required it to. The brothers were not, as you would say it, close, and indeed they seemed to occupy two different Londons; perhaps even two different worlds. But they understood each other. Mycroft understood Sherlock in a way I never could, and vise versa. But that was the extent of their relationship.  
  
Mycroft lodged in Pall Mall, but when not at Whitehall he spent the majority of his time at the club he helped found: the queerest club in London-the Diogenes Club. Anyone who is familiar with the story I entitled "The Greek Interpreter" is no doubt already familiar with both Mycroft Holmes and the lonely, isolated Diogenes Club in which it's member's speak not a word, so I will forego a didactic description.  
  
Sherlock had sent his brother a telegram early that next morning, as he sat over his customary breakfast of heavy pipe tobacco, keeping a watchful eye on the still sleeping curled ball of Josh on the loveseat. Later, as he did every day during my recovery, he would make the three-hour train journey to Plymouth where he would simply sit, smoke, and stare at me from my bed. He was not one to admit this, but I know he was there. For the first time in many a year he neglected all mention of cases or cocaine.  
  
Mycroft was waiting in the Stranger's Room, the only room were talking was permitted.  
  
The club was virtually deserted as it was a Sunday morning, but then again, I dare say that was no accident. "Ah, brother," declared the elder Holmes when Sherlock appeared. "I hope you will indulge me, but I can't contemplate over one of your little problems on so early a morning without some sustenance." He motioned to a spread of sterling silver warming trays and a large polished coffee pot. Mycroft glanced up at his brother as he poured two cups of the steaming hot beverage. "Yet, alternatively, I perceive that it must not be a case you are here on."  
  
Sherlock nodded, and placed himself carefully into one of the club's many easy chairs. "That is obvious. You know I most likely chose Sunday morning to consult with you because..."  
  
"Most men are at chapel or with their families, yes, and the club would be empty. And the telegram you sent was..."  
  
"Rather vague, of course," Sherlock said with a tight smile. "And no doubt my attitude..."  
  
"Suggests something personal is attacking the famed detective of Baker Street."  
  
"Yes...I admit it."  
  
"Ha!" Mycroft exclaimed with a clap of his hands before reaching for a dish of curried fowl. "My brother is a human being after all."  
  
"You are hardly one to talk, brother mine," said Sherlock, eying in disgust as his corpulent sibling piled kippers next to his fowl. He then reached for a smaller tray, lifted the lid, and gave a slight sigh of contentment as he revealed a rather large treacle tart.  
  
"Are you sure you won't have something? It would be a crime indeed for any of this specially prepared spread to go to waste."  
  
Sherlock leaned back in his chair and pulled out a cigarette. He had lived on a steady diet for the previous 48 hours: tobacco and alcohol. His body was shut down toward food for the time being. So I suppose I made a slip up early. There were at least three ways the brothers were very different. "Oh, I wouldn't worry if it goes to waste. Unless it is _your_ waist, of course." He motioned toward his brother's bulging stomach, just barely kept in his waist coat.  
  
"We all have our little idiosyncrasies, Sherlock. Our little trifles that make life worth living. For me, it is good food, vintage wine, long naps and the knowledge that I am of some use to my Queen and country. I ask for nothing else, and expect nothing else. But, unless I am much mistaken, I dare say one of life's necessities is why you are here on an otherwise no doubt client-filled day."  
  
Even Sherlock Holmes, usually the purveyor of such fascinating deductions, was at last the recipient of one. "However did you know?"  
  
"It is quite simple. Yesterday morning, I received a telegram at Whitehall from your housekeeper...."  
  
"Mrs. Hudson sent you a telegram?" Holmes asked incredulously.  
  
"Oh, yes...a charming woman, to be sure. But a bit uninformed. She thought that I may know of your whereabouts, as she hadn't heard from either you or Dr. Watson in 24 hours. Obviously, I hadn't the first damned clue. I immediately thought of Genesis. 'Am I my brother's keeper?' I didn't tell her that, of course. Rather I assured her that you would show up sooner instead of later, or I did not know my brother. It seems I was right. However, I started to think...and I was led to the conclusion that while you are a bit slapdash when it comes to informing people who may be concerned as to your whereabouts, everything I know of the doctor suggests that he is not."  
  
"No, he is not," said Sherlock quietly.  
  
"Ah! Well, then, if he had not assuaged the worries of his young child, then it is reasonable something...has happened to him...yes, I see that is what is going on." Mycroft laid down his cup and poured more coffee in it as he watched his brother flick his cigarette butt into the fire between them, and with a shaking hand, pulled out another. It took three matches for him to finally light it. As he smoked it, he explained to his brother about the case of Black Bishop. He stopped when he got to the part of confronting Richard Bishop by the lake. "He saved my life, Mycroft. Why...I wish only that it had been I that had taken the bullet. I suppose...well, it is a fact that had that occurred, all of my problems would be solved."  
  
Mycroft, who had been eying a second helping of treacle tart, immediately threw down his fork and glared at his brother with every bit of authority he was capable of portraying with those heavy watery grey eyes. "Don't talk that way, brother," he said in an unnaturally deep voice. "It is neither logical nor appropriate. Our parents may not have had any control over you, and we may not be as close as some siblings, but I'll be damned if I will allow my only brother to speak in such a irreverent way."  
  
"The truth is irreverent then, brother?" said Sherlock, jumping to his feet. "You know...you alone know why I really chose to leave England three years ago. I thought...maybe now that he was alone again...but I find that I am faced with the same chose I was then. Suffer while living, not being able to truly use my powers to the full extent because I am distracted, or leave again, and not being able to stand the...being without..."  
  
"Sherlock, "Mycroft said. "You know the only way to relieve yourself of this is to tell the doctor."  
  
What an auspicious moment. After all these years of hiding, being afraid that his honour and name would be ruined, never being able to admit what was in his heart (because it was not the organ he was used to listening to) even to himself. In the end, it was his brother, the only family he had left, and the only person who could worry about the connection they had, who had said what he could not.  
  
"Don't look so surprised, Sherlock. I know that at times you live under the illusion of being unique in this world of ours. But you will remember that despite your recognized inimitability, the same blood flows in both our veins."  
  
"I never claimed any inimitability, brother mine. And I fully recognize that your mind is as the oracle of Delphi. But still, I have never told anyone my....feelings in regard to what you apparently already realize."  
  
"I have known of your proclivities for many a long year, Sherlock. However, I think that your conscious would be greatly lightened if your were to say it yourself." My friend's beautiful grey eyes flashed toward him, like a sudden onslaught of lightening. I can only guess at what he was feeling. Fear, no doubt. Fear and uncertainty. To admit what he was, was no less the equivalent of a confession of a serious crime. Mycroft, however, did not treat it as such. "Prey resume your seat, brother. Have a seat and clear your mind. And then speak."  
  
My friend seated himself opposite the elder, wiser Holmes, and let another cigarette to steady his shattered nerves. The two sets of grey, both watery and shining, glistened in the dim, fading light of the visitor room. Although I was not present, in my mind's eyes I can see the two of them, the two men in front of the fire, clouds of heavy smoke casting a veil over their shapes, casually as if they were discussing the weather or politics. And yet, my friend was about to admit something that could cost him so much. "You must say it, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "If you cannot even admit to me, you shall never be able to admit it to the doctor."  
  
"I...alright, I care a great deal for him."  
  
Mycroft snorted. "Care for him? You will have to do better than that."  
  
"How can I?" Sherlock said, his hand shaking. "How can I, brother?" Even I felt the vibration of the wall he slammed his fist into. "How can I admit that after all these years, I have been living a lie around him? That my feelings are not purely professional, or even friendly, brotherly? That in truth, he has my entire heart. That..." he paused to swallow, and suck in some more tobacco smoke. "That I love him."  
  
Mycroft Holmes sat forward in his armchair, no doubt as attentive as he had ever been, hands clasped in concentration, a familial trait. His eyes washed over his younger brother, taking in the calf-skin leather boots, perfectly tailored silk-lined suit, starched white shirt, slicked back hair, pale flushed face, hawk-like profile, and shaking body. He nodded, the first person to accept what he saw, what he really saw. "You just did it, brother. You just did." Raising his massive bulk to his feet, he strolled over toward the opposite picture window, pausing just long enough to pat his younger brother reassuringly on the shoulder.  
  
Sherlock didn't move. The cigarette hung like an extra appendage from between two long fingers, but he forgot to smoke it. He was lost in the world of his own creation, the world that for the first time, he had let another into. Yes, he had admitted at last his true nature, but it had been to his brother. His brother who shared many of his own traits: his humour, his eccentric lifestyle, his rapid intelligence, and most importantly of all, his past. He understood as no one else could why he was this way. How could anyone else, even myself, not knowing and sharing all of this? "So at last you know," he said to Mycroft. "I have admitted it to the only family I have left. The only family who would have understood."  
  
Mycroft snorted, his hands folded behind his back, studying the whole of London from his perch at the window. "I can think of at least one other in our family who would have understood. Can you not?"  
  
"We shan't talk about her, brother."  
  
"If you insist."  
  
"You have yet to tell me," said Mycroft. "How extensive Watson's injuries are."  
  
"You are right. I have not."  
  
Mycroft shook his head slightly, and turned back to the window. But he understood. The window was the very one that several years ago, when first I learned of the elder Holmes' existence, I had been informed that if ever I wanted to study mankind, this was the very spot to do it. However at that day, I should think that it was inside the window that made a far more interesting study of mankind.  
  
"What will you do if he dies?"  
  
Sherlock glanced at him briefly sideways, the same look of disappointment that I had received myself on more than one occasion. But it was an honest question. Perhaps even a concerned question. Yet one that both men knew was going to produce no answer. "I must leave, brother," said Sherlock. "But I appreciate...everything."  
  
"Sherlock," his brother called, stopping him before he reached the door. "I hope you will keep in mind my advice. And as you have in the past, you will apply logic to the situation. And not rash...fear."  
  
Holmes smiled his whippish grin at him, before opening the door. "I am sure, Mycroft, that I don't know what you mean."  
  
But he did. In his mind, as he put on his topper and gripped his stick, walking back into the bustling civilization that is London, he had only one...or rather two thoughts on his mind. The first was of my death, my dying and he never confessing anything to me about what was in his heart. And the second thought...well, I can only guess that it was a syringe. But not a needle of seven percent cocaine. A syringe filled with the air that would make that damned heart stop controlling him. ----------------------- [1] Staphylococcus infections were not commonly shortened to simply 'staph' infections until the early thirties. [2] From Ralph Waldo Emerson-1842, written a few days after the death of his son. [3] From a poem by Samuel Daniel. 'If this be Love, to Draw a Weary Breath.' Look for it, for it will appear again. [4] Because "The Greek Interpreter" is undated, I don't have any idea how long Watson knew Holmes before he learned of Mycroft. 5 years is just a guess.


	8. Chapter 8

Thanks for the reviews and patience! Well, this one didn't take quite as long. I hope you like it!

It had been dark. Not just dark- black, completely devoid of light, touch, sight- all sensation. Time was spinning past me, but at a pace so rapid that days for others seemed seconds to me. Occasional blasts of intense heat hotter than the worst Indian summers were all I had imprinted on my mind.

Until...

A blast of colour flooded into me. It was a shock to the system, like stepping into a tub of searing hot water on a cold day. Or perhaps more like a dream. But it was unlike any dream ever I could have imagined. It started as golden light: hazy, resembling the first puffs of fog rolling off the Thames as the sun illuminated them yellow and orange spirits. The light filled my brain, every recess of it. An internal sun that shot through me as a bolt of lightening.

It was appallingly bright, even blinding, yet suddenly I was alive again. The pain, completely eradicated.

But then...

The beautiful golden light changed.

It was now a million colours of every shade found in nature. It was all around me. It was a sort of garden. But such a garden that couldn't possibly exist on Earth. The trees jutted six feet wide or more and were as high as the streams of clouds that danced above me. The grass was a carpeting of the softest velvet, and there were flowers: flowers of every colour and variety growing wide as the palm of my out-stretched hand. The gentlest of breezes rushed by, and I was filled with the most utter and complete happiness. Everything in my life that made a memory worth remembering and keeping was here: the taste of my mother's bread hot and dripping with butter; the smell of rose water in my wife's perfume; the sound of my son's wail the day of his birth; the feeling of exhilaration in every case I helped Holmes solve.

I couldn't have imagined that even in the Heavens there was this much beauty and wonder.

And then I saw her.

Dressed in the violet silk gown with the lace bodice that she wore on our honeymoon, looking as ethereal as an angel come to Earth, it was my darling Mary. Alive.

Suddenly I was no simply seeing all of this, but my body was there as well. I had substance. Oh, God...I could speak to her.

"Mary. Mary...is it...it _is _really you."

"John," she said in the much remembered voice. She was smiling, lightly, beautifully, but couldn't reach to embrace me. There was something in her arms. Something...familiar...yet it couldn't be.

The baby had a head of blond curls, just as Josh had, but rather than her brother's blue, my little daughter had my own light brown ones. I was so stunned, so incapable of moving that all I did was stand there, too afraid that if I moved even a single muscle, both would surely vanish.

Baby Vera cooed and flapped her hands at me, laughing with a mouth that revealed two tiny teeth, and that delicious smell of baby powder and milk. I wanted so to take her in my arms. But I was afraid if I even touched her she would melt into the flowers and trees.

"She knows you of course, Darling."

"But...how is it that you are here?"

Mary's smile faded slightly. It seemed to me that her essence flickered, gone for a fraction of time.

"Oh, John," she said softly. "I wish I could tell you that all of this were real. That this was Heaven, and you and I, Vera and Josh could live in this Eden together for all time. But unfortunately...for now at least, this is only a dream. In a moment or two, you'll wake up, and this will only be a beautiful memory."

But it couldn't be. I could feel Mary's warmth next to me, even smell the roses of her perfume. Birds chirped above us. The sun was crisply warm on our heads. This was real. It had to be real. "But Mary...this cannot be a dream. It cannot! I have you back. Do you think I'm going to let you go, after all?"

"You must," she whispered. "One day, this will be real. But for now, there is no other choice but for you to return home and recoup your health. There are people that need you, John. Even in all my love for you, I couldn't muster the selfishness to take you away from them."

_Them?_

"But...Mary, no, not yet!"

She had begun to flicker and I was growing cold, pulling away from her. I felt heavy, as if falling fast, but my lungs were having a time of it to simply draw and expel oxygen. I was suffering from dysponoea1. Or maybe...was I dying? I couldn't be sure of anything.

"John," I heard her say, now from a distance. "You must forgive yourself. For what has happened, and for what will happen. There is no sin in you in my eyes. Know that. Know that now and always you have my guidance, my heart and my love."

"Mary!" I heard someone scream. It sounded like my own voice. But how could it? My lips were closed; my eyes were shut. Even my body. Completely shut down.

However, something must have changed. Because now I _realized_ Ihad shut down.

Once again, I felt bright light. It pressed against my eyelids like lead weights. My vision changed from completely black to fuzzy red. I was still warm, but there was now so much more to feel.

Somehow I managed to force my eyelids open. I felt quite queer all over. At first it was only a very stiff, foggy feeling as one might expect from over-sleeping. And then I felt the pain.

It is hard to describe exactly the pain I was in, but it is quite unmistakable. I won't claim any unwarranted bravado, as many men do toward pain, for I don't mind admitting that it hurt like the Dickens. It is sort of a crawling burn-sometimes subtle enough that I tolerated it, and other times-like running a metal file across naked skin full on.

As my eyes became focussed, I was flooded with thoughts and questions. Perhaps that is just the medical man within me, but I hated to be without knowledge. Particularly as to my own condition. To avoid panic, I took it one step at a time.

I was in a bed, obviously, in a hospital. No other curtained-off partitions could be seen so I must have had a private room. But I couldn't remember why I was here. Or how. Or even _what. _My mind felt swimming, floaty...unconnected in a way. Looking down at my wrist, I saw the reason why. Needle tracks. I'd undoubtedly been injected with morphine for the pain. That explained why it came and went so haphazardly.

"Well...it really is about time."

Turning my head ever so slightly, I saw the answer to at least a few questions. Sitting in an armchair, smoking a cigarette was someone I would always recognize, coma or not: Sherlock Holmes.

I blinked several times, trying to clear the fog of amnesia out of my mind. "Holmes..." I managed to croak.

He grinned at me, quickly so as not to appear sentimental no doubt, although he could not disguise the relief that showed in ever facet of his manner. His face coloured slightly, his hand stopped twitching and he exhaled the longest breath ever I've seen anyone expel.

"That is you...isn't it?"

"Of course, my dear chap." He smiled again, and I knew he really must have been relieved. No doubt, I must have been fairly seriously injured to warrant this reaction. "It is about time, as I said, Watson. And I thought _I _was the dramatist among us. I say, in a coma for an entire week. That really is too much."

I couldn't honestly tell if he was serious or not. It is so hard to tell with him at times such as these.

"What happened?" I asked, and it was saying much that I managed to. I could feel every syllable vibrate against my injury...whatever it was.

"You don't remember?"

"No...not anything."

For a fleeting moment I was sure he looked relieved at this knowledge. Why, I couldn't exactly say, but I am sure that is what it was. But then his face fell slightly, as if he'd come to the realization that he would have to tell me, no matter how painful. That was what I took of it anyhow, based on a study of the man for some odd dozen years.

"You may as well just come out with it, Holmes. What's the worst it can do to me? Put me into another coma?"

We both scoffed a laugh, but he really did look a bit too serious for my liking. I soon found out why. "Perhaps it is not that grave. But it may...destroy your faith in me."

I laughed at that, grimacing at how much a simple laugh could hurt. "My dear Holmes, I hardly think so. What is it?"

"Do you recall anything of our last case?" He asked, leaning forward until he was as near as he could be without actually sitting on the bed. When I said I did not, he recollected the entire case of Black Bishop, in frank, specific detail of course, ending with Richard Bishop and the two of us at the water's end on the estate.

"Whatever possessed you to step in front of me? It really was a foolish thing to do."

"Step in front of..." But then I remembered...it hit me quite suddenly, as if my brain were suddenly jabbed with a fist of memory. Yes. I _had _been shot. By Holmes. But he had been trying protect his own life...he had been aiming at Bishop. But if I hadn't stepped in front of him...it would be he lying in this bed now, maybe even dead Yes, I remember...

Oh, God, what have I done? John... 

That was what he had said.

"You called me by my Christian name," I said, simply because I never had heard him use it before.

He raised his eyebrows suspiciously. "Yes..." 

"And if I hadn't stepped in front of you, Bishop would have shot you."

"I would have preferred it that way, Watson."

"Ho-ho, I'm sure you would...but I've already had to experience the guilt of _your_ loss once. It does seem fair that you have a go...for Heaven's sake, man, don't look so grim...it was only a joke. Are you alright?"

"Am _I_ alright? Do you not realize how close you came to death? That I had to tell your son. If I had died, I would have left no one behind...so next time..."

"_No one behind_? For God's sake, Holmes! What about me?! And don't you think Josh would have grieved the loss of you just as well as me?! I say, you really are egocentric sometimes...Augh!" I felt a horrid pang race through me like quicksilver, and I knew fighting with him was certainly not going to aid in my recovery. Clenching my side, I tried to put on a straight face again.

"What's wrong?" His hand shot out instinctively toward me, but at the last second, he pulled back, and carefully placed it next to me on the bed.

"Nothing...it's just...nothing. I don't have the strength to disagree with you. Tell me about what has been happening. Is Josh alright? Have you had any new cases?"

"No...you had better rest. I assure you everything is fine. I apologize for what I said. But it has been...well, difficult seeing you like this. I can never begin to tell you...well, thank you for saving my life, Watson."

"Er...you're welcome." This had to be the most uncomfortable conversation ever we had had. What on Earth was wrong with him? I was too tired to find out right then. "You don't have to leave, Holmes. By all means, stay. I enjoy the sound of your voice."

"_Do_ you now?"

"It's very reassuring...and sleep-inducing," I told him, smiling.

"I suppose I deserved that."

"Yes...you did."

"What do you wish me to say?"

"Anything," said I, closing my eyes. "Just talk. I've been...seeing things. Sort of a hallucination dream. It was wonderful. And horrible. I saw her again...both of them. They were alive. But then they were gone. Again. I couldn't bear it...but oh, I'm rambling, my friend. Just talk to me. I don't...can't be alone..."

"Don't worry," he whispered, patting my shoulder. "You're not.

I was distantly aware that he began talking, first, I think, about a new poison he could concoct, ten times more toxic than strychnine using mostly benign ingredients. And then...everything was a blur...hidden Shakespearian messages...theories on the psychopath's mind...

And then I fell into an uneasy sleep, this one without images of the recent past, thankfully.

Just three days later I was released from the hospital in Charring Cross, deemed fit enough to recuperate back home. I was not averse to this, as one can grow quite weary looking at the same four sterile walls, particularly when they are not your own. There is nothing of interest to report in my remaining days there, as I had no visitors, not even Holmes. I did receive a rather nice bouquet of flowers from Elizabeth Bishop thanking me and wishing me a speedy recovery, and two cards from Josh, left by Holmes: one of a brownish blob that I took for a dog and another of a man with a moustache and a hole in his stomach standing next to a boy. Him and I no doubt, I thought amusingly. In fact, until the day Holmes came to escort me home on the Underground, we didn't speak. It was a short trip, but it did elicit a rather curious conversation.

"Of course, you should know, Watson, that you were not the only victim in this messy case," he said as we pulled away from the station.

"Wasn't I?"

"Oh, no." Reaching into his waist coat pocket, he pulled out his watch. It took but a moment for me to see that the front had a rather large dent and the glass was cracked. "It is beyond repair, I am afraid," he said. "Yet I cannot help but feel naked without it."

"What happened?" I asked.

He snorted as he shoved the contraption back into the front pocket. "I could, you know, blame you for this small misfortune."

"Blame _me_?"

"Oh, yes. You see, after I...inadvertently shot you, or rather you got in the path of the bullet, the Bulldog that young Bishop was holding flew out of his hand when you fell into him. Flew out of his hand and right into my waist coat pocket, smashing my watch."

I doubt he was trying to illicit sympathy because it was not in his nature, but for some reason I felt some nonetheless. A watch is usually one of the most personal possessions a man can own; one he values above much else. My own had come from my father through my brother, and was now one of the only connections I had of the two left. Holmes had deduced far more about it than I ever would have been able to, and led to one of the few times over the years I was angry with him over his lack of propriety.2 However, as was typical of the man's past, I realized that I knew nothing of his-not where he had acquired it, nor who from. I could assume that it was probably not his father's as he was the second son and Mycroft was still living.

"Was it valuable?" I asked.

"No...not really. Father's watch, of course, went to Mycroft. I bought this one myself from McCabe3 when I was graduated from University. It was a watch of necessity, not of sentiment, I assure you."

That did surprise me. "Your own father did not buy you one? Not upon your coming of age? Or graduating?"

"No," he said. "My father was dead by then. And my mother..." He stopped then, glancing at me with a brief grin, and then turned his attention to the _Times _that lay on the empty seat next to him. It was the first time since learning of his brother and relation to the French artist Vernet that I heard him speak anything of his family. To speak the truth, I was dying to hear more. The Holmes' family had always fascinated me, but always I was afraid to broach the subject. It was the one issue Holmes seemed reluctant to speak of.

For several days after I arrived home, I hardly moved from my chamber. I simply slept. Gradually, I took to standing and then walking about the room for periods at a time. I had lost some weight after the accident, and took great delight in, as Holmes put it, 'fattening back up.' Mrs. Hudson, who had seemingly taken on the role of nurse, kept both Josh and Holmes away from me, fussing about my needing rest and the like. After about a week, though, I was fairly fed up with sleeping. I was more than ready to go out again, check in on Parks at my surgery, go anywhere that wasn't Baker Street. You would have thought I was asking my parent's permission given the resistance I faced.

"It really isn't wise to go out yet, Watson," my friend said one morning in early December as he sat in my room trying to keep my company, but so distracted was he that all he was really doing was smoking one cigarette after another. "After all, you did come very close to death. I would hate to have it on my conscience that you became ill because you were still too weak." That was what Holmes, apparently thinking I was Josh and not his father, told me.

"I wasn't aware that you had taken a degree in medicine, Holmes."

"Don't be a clever dick4, Watson. You may be bored, but you know it's for your own good. There are things you could do here that may be of interest to you."

"Oh, yes, such as?"

"Well, you could use this time to get back to your writing. I'm sure that _The Strand _would be very interested in having you back. You were one of their biggest draws if I remember correctly."

"Yes, well..." In truth, ever since he had returned, the thought had lingered in my mind as to how (or if), I would return to chronicling Holmes. It would seem strange if I did not. Especially after his offer to pay me half his client fees for me to keep records, but there was also the problem that a great deal of my readers still thought him lying at the bottom of Reichenbach. And I certainly wasn't convinced that Black Bishop would be the best case for me to recount given my wound and, frankly, all the strange hidden innuendo.

"You know, Watson," said Holmes, reading my mind as usual. "The little matter I handled with the now incarcerated Colonel Moran might be an ideal reintroduction for the public."

"I won't even ask how you knew I was thinking about that very subject...no doubt it is an absurdly simple deduction. But still, the fact remains I cannot just begin a case... 'Holmes and I were sitting over a pipe one chilly London morning discussing...'

"How the Devil I reappeared? And not as a spirit?" He finished with a smile.

"Yes, something like that...or rather no, it's not that I can't explain your disappearance for three years and sudden return. It's that I cannot...or _should _not say what happened when you did."

"Really? And why's that?"

"Oh, come now, man. I know you are far too logical to appreciate the delicacies that I have to occasionally invent or change in order to conform to society, but if you actually read my accounts you'll notice that I cannot possibly have you return, scare the bloody Hell out of me before I throw you out, stew for a week and then when you show up a second time, I humiliate myself by crying in front of you!"

"Heavens, Watson! You do have a dramatic streak in your blood after all. But really, you do over-exaggerate. After all, you _had _just lost your wife. And what I did...well, you have my permission to make me out to be the biggest ogre your imagination can conjure up. I did do something rather horrid as it were."

I wasn't about to disagree with that, even two months later. "Well, even if I changed things around a little, I _would _have a time of making it seem as though I'd done anything but abandon you to deal with Moran alone."

Holmes smiled briefly, wistfully, as if my regret as to his treatment that night delighted him. Clasping his hands behind his back, he proceeded to make our Persian throw rug even more threadbare as he paced around the room. Finally after a few long strange moments, he stopped on his heels. "Why Watson, the answer is elementary!5 You simply lie!"

"Lie? Lie about what?"

"Fictionalise the case! I have some details (and by some he no doubt meant all) recorded, and if you were to review these, I have no doubt you could easily work yourself into the matter, making it appear to your readers that everything went perfectly smooth between the two of us when I returned to London."

"But...lie? How can I do that with an easy conscience?

"Watson...Watson...it's not as if what you write is a model for exercises on deduction. You embellish them for dramatic purposes, turn a series of instructional cases into _stories_. I hardly think that your conscience should suffer just because you take it one step further."

Part of me was almost relieved that he said this, if simply for the reason that it sounded so much like Holmes. It still hurt, after everything, but this time his criticism helped even more. Our gazes met, and we simply stared at each other as if neither of us knew what to say. Something seemed to have happened, but what I didn't know.

"Well," Holmes as last said. "If you change your mind, I have the records of the case in my files. It's a bit scattered, but I'm sure you can fish them out."

"Are you leaving?" I asked, surprised.

"Only for the day. I must go to Dartmoor, for the Assizes are meeting, and I must testify how I came to _discover, _discover, their word of course, not mine, the murderer of Michael Clive. I'm afraid that Richard Bishop may face quite a time of it. From what I've heard from Elizabeth Bishop, they aren't taking much into account: the fact that his father abandoned them, the fact that he _thought _it was his father...or even that he is only 15."

"Should I not come with you? After all, I was a witness as well. I have the proof in the hole in my back."

"No, no. You need to rest. There is nothing you can testify to that I cannot. I suggest that you rest...and write. It will help to clarify things for you, I think."

"Clarify things? In what way?"

His mouth twitched and he broke eye contact. "I must go if I am to be on time." And then he flew out of the room without so much as a good-bye.

For some reason, the weight of that conversation left me weary. He seemed to have taken to speaking in cryptic messages of late, and by now I should have been used to it. But I couldn't help but feel as if there were something serious going on with him, something he wasn't telling me. I had had the feeling for months now, but up until very recently had been busy enough to ignore it. It is not so much as an intuition mind, but a feeling none the less. Or maybe it was simply that I knew enough of the man that it was obvious to me that something was off.

What it was though, I could not mull over at that exact moment. Thinking I would at least follow the first part of my friend's advice, I closed my eyes, hoping that I could fall into a deep enough sleep that I would awake not only refreshed, but whole again. But as usual, I never got the chance.

"Papa, Papa, will you read to me?"

This was said as I was nearly disembowelled by hard little hands and feet crawling climbing up on me. "Ow! Josh, do be careful!"

"Sorry...I forgot about your shot."

"My what?"

"Your shot...Uncle said you got shot. That's why you weren't here for lots of days."

"Oh, yes...my shot," I said smiling. "I am sorry about that, darling. I certainly didn't want to be away for so long. But it should make you feel better to know that I was having a dreadful time."

"I was sad at first because I thought you weren't going to come back. 'Specially because Uncle looked so sad, too. But then everything was okay. We went to the zoo."

The zoo? Sherlock Holmes at the zoo? For pleasure? The idea seemed ludicrous. "Holmes took you to the zoo?"

"Yes," he said nodding. "It was fun! Uncle knows lots of things about the animals. Where they're from and what they eat and mating practices."

"Mating practices! Did he tell you..."

"It was strange...I didn't know what he was talking about."

"Well, thank God for that...I don't know what is with that man."

"Will you read now?"

He plopped a heavy book in my lap, one with a blue leather cover and a coloured picture of a princess on its cover. "Read, Papa," he said, resting his head against my arm.

I read his favourite Grimm fairy tale, one entitled 'Iron John.' It's a bit of silly tale, involving a prince who must learn the meaning of working for a living by this man covered in iron. Josh likes it because the man is strong and rich, and of course, has the same name as he. When I had finished, his eyes were droopy and the clock struck half past one o'clock, the golden hour for a nap.

"I wish I could be like Iron John," said Josh, yawning. "I would like to be able to have everything I wanted."

"And what would a little boy just three years of age possibly want that he doesn't already have?" As soon as I asked it, however, I regretted it. I should have been obvious that he would want his mother back. But instead, he asked for something much different.

"I would have two things," said he, holding up two small fingers for emphasis. "For everyone in the world to be happy and a dog." He paused and added. "Christmas is in seventeen days. I counted. Do you think I could ask Father Christmas for those things?"

I hardly knew what to say. And believe me, I wasn't sure which request was more surprising. "Josh, darling, it is very sweet of you to want people to be happy...but whatever possessed you to make such a wish?"

"I don't like people to be unhappy. It makes _me _unhappy."

"But who do you know that it is unhappy?"

He looked at me, a look I shall never forget for as long as I live. It was not a look one would expect from so young a child. And I knew he was not going to tell me anything. This was just the first of many times, throughout the years, that I would suspect that my child had a gift that I would neither be able to understand or explain. I was ever so grateful then when he knowingly changed the subject. "Do you think Father Christmas would bring me a dog?"

"Dog? Oh, a dog..." I cleared my throat, trying to stop my head from spinning. Why couldn't I have a child that wanted simple things like toy boats and drums and sweets? "Er...I think you're a bit young for a dog yet, son. Not to mention that this place is rather small for one."

"Couldn't I at least ask him?" He was nearly asleep now as he yawned once more.

The mere thought that in this mess that was my life right then, there was something as innocent as Josh and Father Christmas nearly caused me to give in and run to the nearest pet shop. But not quite. "You can do anything you like, Joshie. I'll help you write him a letter in a few days if you like. I do think that you ought to ask for a few other things, though, just in case he agrees with me."

"'Kay, Papa." He closed his eyes and was asleep within seconds.

I, myself, was no longer the least bit tired. It was as if all the sleep I'd had in the last week had come rushing into me at that exact moment, and I felt wide awake. Or at least I felt as if I had to do something. If I had the opportunity to sit and think I may not have liked what I would have thought on. And so it was that I carefully made my way to my feet, tucked the quilt around Josh, and headed in to find the papers I needed to complete what I'd already titled "The Empty House."

I went into the sitting room, and over to the files where Holmes kept copies of the Times-any edition that had something newsworthy he thought he may be able to use some time. I knew the Adair murder was in September of this year, only three months ago, but I didn't remember the exact date.

"Well, one thing will never change-he is and always will be a slob," I muttered to myself as I ruffled through newspapers, old telegram forms, notes, and God knows what else trying to find the one I was looking for. It boggled the mind how a man who was so particular about his appearance could care so little for the state his living quarters were in.

I found it under a telegram from LeStrade and the evening edition of three weeks ago with a headline reading **_Parliament to vote on Term Limits. _**It instantly brought back a conversation with my son of...Lord, when was it? Less than three weeks, although it seemed two years. Josh had told me that he had seen Holmes with a book, and that he looked like I had when Mary had died.

_Dunno, Papa. Just really sad. He closed the book really fastly when he saw me and wouldn't tell me what it was. That was it. _

_ Do you recall what book it was? _

_ It was red...and fat. That's all I 'member, Papa. _

It was this book. I was sure of it. Holmes had only a small library, almost all of them specific books that he could use: law books, sensational literature, chemical texts and the like. Not many were bound in red leather. This had to be the one that Josh had seen.

Picking it up, I turned to the title page. _British Poetry Through the Ages, _it read. Poetry? I never knew that Holmes read poetry. Or any sort of emotional writing of the like. Why would he? It served no logical purpose. I have to admit that I myself wasn't the biggest aficionado, although I had learned enough of the classics from Mary that I could appreciate it as a whole.

The book was well worn, and firstly I rationalized that it was simply a hand-me-down from a family member, nothing he would ever buy or read on his own, but kept it in his library because of the family connection-or something of the like.

How wrong I was.

It was in the middle of the book, page 237 to be exact that I found it. A carefully preserved second-page article dated to May of '91. I knew the one very well as I had a copy of it myself in an album with my wedding announcement, Josh's birth announcement, my medal and various other sentimental objects: it was the article that announced to all of London Holmes' death, and had the eulogy I had written for him. The eulogy he said was ineffectual and sympathetic. It was without a doubt the most heart felt thing ever I had penned.

But why would he have a copy of it? Or more so, a copy in a poetry book-

My eyes fell down to the poem printed on this page. I had the feeling I had read it some where. Yes. It was one of Mary's favourites. Samuel Daniel.

_It's not exactly famous, she_ _had_ _said_. _But I think it's beautiful. The speaker is so in love that he doesn't even care how miserable he is not to have his love returned. _

_ Sounds rather dodgy to me, Mary. Why is it that poet's are never in love with someone who loves them back? _

_Oh, John-she laughed. You really don't understand. But you cannot help it...men cannot help it. So I forgive you. _

Perhaps it was a coincidence that the article was here. But no-it could not be. The page was dog-eared as well. This poem had to have some sort of meaning to Holmes.

'If this be love, to draw a weary breath,

To paint on floods till the shore cry to th'air

With downward looks, still reading on the earth

The sad memorials of my love's despair;

If this be love, to war against my soul

Lie down to wail, rise up to sigh and grieve,

The never-resting stone of care to roll,

Still to complain my griefs whilst none relieve;

If this be love, to clothe me with dark thoughts,

Haunting untrodden paths to wail apart;

My pleasures horror, music tragic notes,

Tears in mine eyes and sorrow at my heart

If this be love, to live a living death,

Then do I love and draw this weary breath.'

But that wasn't all. There was more. Written in red ink with a far more careful scrawl than I was used to from him, I nonetheless instantly recognized the hand as that of Holmes. It was three separate Latin phrases:

_Nec tecum possum vivere, nec sine te_

_Ioannes est nomen eius_

_Miserere mei_

My Latin was somewhat rusty, especially my phrasing. Yet I was afraid the instant I finished reading. I rushed toward my room as fast as my wound would allow, feeling the twinge with every step. In there, in my own small library of mostly novels and medical texts was one book that I had kept since University. A Latin dictionary. The cover was tattered and many of the pages bent and torn as I'd desperately tried to keep up with my rambling old Latin master.

Nec tecum possum vivere, nec sine te- 

I can neither live with you, nor without you.

Ioannes est nomen eius- 

John is his name.

Miserere mei- 

Have mercy on me-6

I had to read it several times before it sunk in. _I can neither live with you, nor without you. John is his name. Have mercy on me..._

Mercy...John...neither live...than do I love...love

Love.

I dropped the book on the floor.

Oh my God.

Suddenly everything made sense. The way he'd been acting. The violin playing. Asking if I planned to remarry. That kiss...

But no...

No, how could that be?

How could the man that I was closer to than any other feel that way about me? What everyone had been saying about him was true.

I was suddenly aware that the colour in the room seemed off. My hand, the hand that had been holding the book, was shaking. My knees felt like water. My face felt hot. Shakily, I made my way over to my chair. I had to think...I had to rationalize...I had to do something. But what?

My eyes fell back to the book, sprawled open on the floor. No, this wasn't right. Something wasn't right. This was all too obvious...too planned. That book just happened to be there, right next to the articles. And my eulogy...stuck in that exact page. And he had written that.

He wanted me to know.

He knew he wouldn't be here, and he had wanted me to find out.

"Oh, God!" I said.

_I can neither live with you, nor without you..._

I jumped to my feet. What was he doing? He couldn't be...could he?

Yes.

He could.

"Mrs. Hudson!" I yelled. "Mrs. Hudson, I must leave! Please take care of Josh for me for a day or so!"

I ran down the stairs ignoring all pain, ripping my coat and hat off the rack. Mrs. Hudson stuck her head out of the kitchen, looking at me as if I were possessed. She had bread dough stuck to her fingers. "What are yelling about, doctor? You really should be in bed, you know. You won't do your wound any good..."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson! I must leave! I have to stop him!"

"Stop? Stop who, sir?"

_Lord, please let me find him in time. This can't be the way. No matter what he is or what he has done..._

_I won't lose him again..._

1 Difficulty in breathing

2 Holmes deduces that Watson's elder brother was a drunk based on an examination of the watch in SIGN. It really is one of his better deductions and a fascinating moment between the two, in my opinion.

3 Reference to James McCabe-a 18th and 19th century watchmaker who moved from Belfast to London. His son continued the business when he died and were well-renowned.

4 Smart Aleck

5 Sorry, I couldn't resist...

6 'Have mercy on me'-the 51st Psalm


	9. Chapter 9

_Thanks for all the really great reviews! You guys are awesome!_

This time, the three-hour trip passed with a blur. I tried to concentrate on the scenery, on the passing hills and farm houses, but the sky had overcastted and within minutes thick raindrops splattered against the window. I was glad for only one thing-that the train was more empty than full, and no one shared my compartment. One look at me, and I feared it may cause the entire train to stop. It seemed to me than, at least, that I surely must have been projecting horrid images.

Had there been some clue? Was there something I should have noticed but didn't?

Yes.

There were many things, as you no doubt already are aware of, reader. I shall spare you by listing them. But for me, knowing now what I did, it is just something a man does not think on, particularly with a man like Sherlock Holmes. I thought love an emotion beyond him. I told all of London this.1 How could I have been so blind?

But more importantly, what was I to do about it? 

No, I couldn't think on that now. Right at this moment, just finding him was the most important thing.

The rain hit hard against the glass, a million tiny deaths at sixty miles per hour. My head pounded with my pulse. Leaning against the head rest, I closed my eyes, wishing only that my mind were like Josh's chalkboard. That I could erase it and know nothing of the words that raced through it faster than the train was travelling.

The rain was bitterly cold and constant as I stepped off the platform. I felt terrible. My lungs were congested, my throat felt of sandpaper and I was sure that there was a knife twisting around my spine. Trying to ignore it all, I spied a cab.

"All right there, mate?" Asked the cabby, unusually concerned with something besides his fare. "Y'ain't lookin' so good."

Of course I didn't. He didn't know the half of it.

"I'm fine," I said, huddling under my now damp coat. "Black Bishop, and hurry."

It seemed to me odd, remembering just two weeks ago how Holmes and I had rushed back to Black Bishop trying to stop Richard from doing something foolish. Cabbies usually did not voice any concern at all, whether it was on where you were going or your condition. This one apparently did. I remembered him as the very same one that memorable day. Listening to him two weeks ago could have saved me a lot of pain.

Who knew what listening to him right then could have saved me?

My stomach lurched with the unevenness of the sloppy road, and I was forced to sit with my eyes closed and my hands clenched against me. I was sick, I realized that. Rushing about in the rain was the last thing I needed.

Black Bishop soon loomed in front of me wet and desolate, its agate stone glistening in the dark day. The wind howled its aloneness and the rain was thick and heavy. If my mood had matched the weather any more perfectly, I would have thought myself a beacon to create it.

I told the cabby to wait for a minute as I crawled out. I had no idea where the Assizes were meeting, and obviously Elizabeth and her brother were going to be wherever that was, but I had hoped that a servant may be able to tell me where I needed to go. However, I was more than a little surprised when Elizabeth Bishop herself answered the door.

"Why, Dr. Watson! What on Earth are you doing way out here?"

"I was...I thought that the Assizes were meeting."

"The Assizes? No, that's not until after the holidays." She paused for a second, no doubt really looking at me and not understanding what she saw. "What has happened to you? Should you really be out so soon after your injury? You look awful, I must say. Please, come inside and rest for awhile. I'll make you some coffee..."

"No," said I, backing up. "I have to find Holmes. I thought he was here, but it's essential that I find him."

"Why is that?" And then she really looked at me, and for a minute in my unnatural state, I backed up, fearing that she may be reading my mind. "Has something happened?" She asked.

"Yes."

But that was all I would say.

"Is there nothing I can do?"

"I'm afraid not." I was inching my way toward the cab. I wanted to get away from here. There was something wrong with all of this. She seemed to know. _No, how could she? _But she seemed to. "I must leave, Miss Bishop. Thank...thank you for your help."

"Oh, Dr. Watson, wait!"

I turned.

"I just remembered! I was so shocked to see you that I'd forgotten, but I remember that when Mr. Holmes was here last, when he told me of your condition, he said something that I thought was a bit odd at the time, but now I suppose he must have foreseen this."

I went instantly cold, as if all the blood had been drained from me. "What is it?"

"He said that if ever you came here looking for him, I should tell you that he is at the place where it all began."

I felt wet, cold metal as my hand reached out for the cab door to keep from falling.

"Do you know what that means?"

"Yes," I whispered. "Unfortunately, I do."

Reichenbach.

I knew instantly that had to be where he was. He wanted me back there. Why? So I could bare witness to him throwing himself to his death, confessing his sin to me and then taking the soldier's way out, as it was known?

But no. I just could not see him doing that. What purpose would it serve to have me there then? He wanted me at hand for another reason. Whether he could live with or without me was a moot point. I just couldn't see him ending his own existence because of this. If for no other reason then he was too egotistical to think England could survive his permanent departure. But still, I had to go to him. I knew that.

What I didn't know was just about everything else.

I took the train from Dartmoor all the way to Dover and the Channel crossing. That alone was a four hour trip, and it was already past dinner time when I reached the port. But I was thinking only about my destination, and not about how I would get there, or how long it would take.

At Dover, I sent a telegram home apologising profusely to my son and Mrs. Hudson about running off without trace the way I had. I know you shall think me horrid for doing it, for this was certainly not the first time I had run away from my duty as Josh's only parent. But I confess that at that moment in time, fatherhood was not my first concern, whether it should have been or not.

It was already late as we reached the port in Calais, France, and still I was many hours out of Meiringen where the Falls fell high into the Alps. I had some luck that I managed to catch an express, and barring accident, I was scheduled to reach the final station late the next afternoon, a journey of 36 hours or so. I had no idea what Holmes intended, whether he was staying at a Hostel near there, or if he would actually be at the Falls, just sitting with his thoughts until I appeared. Holmes was an expert at feigning catalepsy, and I knew that he could sit for hours, perhaps days without moving, eating or sleeping if he willed it.

It took a day and a half without stopping. 36 hours in what had taken more than a week the last time the journey was made. But then we had been going at our leisure and had taken time to enjoy our sites. I could no more have enjoyed that trip than I could have sprouted wings and flew. Many times on both the boat and train people passed by me, glancing, a few even nodding in greeting but I paid them no mind. One old chap commented in broken English on the storms that seemed to be following us (or at least me) that had started in England, moved through France and was headed East and South. It would be waiting for me in Switzerland. I wasn't surprised. All I could do was drink large quantities of water every time we were stopped, but could not even contemplate food. In fact I spent the entire trip either falling in and out of sleep in my seat or else in the lavatory.

I felt slightly better as I reached Meiringen. It was now a two or three mile hike toward the falls, and the sun was just setting above the snowy, jagged Alps. It was all a much different picture than in spring.

I had already passed the Inn where Holmes and I stayed three springs ago, and it looked curiously unfriendly in the evening's half-dark shadows. Parts of me-my feet, head, stomach and back among them-begged me to go and secure a room, collapse on a soft bed and not awaken for many days. But I pushed myself onward.

I was nearly certain that he would be there. He would have done the calculations on how long it would take me to arrive, and he would be exactly where we had last parted here.

I walked on. The air was hard within my lungs, but I didn't stop. Not even when it began to drizzle, and then pour.

Sweat and rain dripped off of me as I neared him on the far side ledge. The very ledge where, three and a half years previous, he had stood in a battle of a much different kind. He stood now on the very edge: straight as a rod, yet he seemed to be waiting. For me. No, he would not jump. He was dramatic, but not that much so. The sun was setting and everything had a reddish-gold tint to it. From where I was, he seemed alight2.

As it happened, the path I was on led up behind him, which depressed me. I would have to make the first move. What would I say? What _could _I say? Were there really words that even existed? If so, they were neither in my head nor on my lips.

The wind, being December, was stronger than I cared for. Thick icicles dripped slowly from the slick rocks around me. A covering of half-melted snow made my boots sink in the mud, and already I could feel neither my toes nor lips. The spray from the falls hit me the closer I moved, wetting my already rain-soaked body. This was the last place on Earth I wanted to be.

There were so many memories of this place.

Or no. There was one long memory. But that was enough.

I could only recall the feeling of finding that note on that day three springs ago. How it felt to think of my dearest friend, lying under all those tons of water, torn up by sharp rocks with the only man in this planet perhaps capable of defeating him. If only he knew how much it hurt, how I was nearly sick with regret that I couldn't have been there to catch him.

But it was all a lie. He hadn't trusted me.

That hurt more than anything.

That was what hurt most of this new situation.

And so that was what I said. Or yelled rather. "Why can't you trust me? Why do you never trust me?"

He didn't turn around. Didn't move even one muscle. "Trust..." I heard him say under his breath. "'O, yet we trust that somehow good will be the final goal of ill...behold, we know not anything..."'3

"Don't do that! Don't you dare use other men's words to explain this to me. I want to hear your own. You owe me that much, after all." I was now right behind him, starring at the back of his sodden grey wool coat. I wasn't sure what to expect. But what I got was not what I expected at all. He spun around, his normally intense, piercing expression now blazing. He was as positively frightening to me in appearance as I to he right then, no doubt. Droplets of rain hung off his chin, nose and ears. His skin was flushed pink with cold. Chunks of mud clung to his coat and trousers. His eyes were icy metal bits that bore into my face. He was not the man I knew. How could he be?

"I? Owe you?" He said in a voice that was more like a hiss. "How is that it is I who owes you anything after all I have done for you? If not for me you would never have gained fame as my biographer, providing you a steady income and reputation. And more so, you never would have met _my_ client, Mary Morstan, and had your child. You would be simply one of London's many retired Army veterans. A man living alone in a flat facing life as something that must be met but not necessarily lived!"

My first reaction was one of anger, obviously. Delirious anger as it were because I cannot claim to be in a normal mindset. In fact the aches that I acquired on the train and then the boat in my stomach, throat and head were now, after that hike and encountering him, worse. But I managed with some degree of will to not react as brash schoolboy, but as a reasonably restrained adult.

And what I found was that it hardly sounded as if he were speaking of me at all, but rather of himself.

"Or is it that you think I owe you because you saved my life? And I nearly took yours?"

"Don't speak rubbish, Holmes. You know I don't think that. But what am I _supposed_ to think on all of this? You have been lying to me for years now. Hiding what you felt. I...admit I can understand why you did, but to take off like this. And then to insinuate suicide. Really, what am I to think? Even now, you stand there, professing your love to me in a dusty old book, and then lead me 1000 kilometres to this spot. Well, whatever you intended, I am here! You cannot run away from it this time. Speak, man! I want to know the meaning of this! I don't wish to argue, to accuse, or anything. I just want to know..."

Holmes turned back around, staring back at the top of the world, which is Reichenbach. Perhaps if I had not such horrid memories of what had happened, and what was still happening, I could have appreciated how beautiful this place could be. Was that what Holmes saw? Or did he perhaps see a place of dark, hidden secrets with every droplet that fell to its death off the edge? Yes, I would guess that was what he perceived. He always saw the evil in every place, whether real or imagined. "I cannot give you the meaning of this Watson, because I do not know it myself. This is some sort of disease. And yes, I do see the irony of my disease and you a doctor. I never asked to feel the way I do. Yet whatever I try, I cannot rid myself of it. If anything, it grows worse."

"But why did you bring me _here_, to confess? And why the book? Why could you just not tell me face to face?"

"Oh, come now, Watson! You are not thinking! Do you not know what would happen to my reputation, my honour, my very _name _if I told you and it was found out?! I would be ruined, perhaps even charged with a crime! But I knew that if I were vague, if I drew you out of England to me here that there was little chance of anyone finding out anything."

"But...(_oh, how could I ask this, what were the right words?)_ why me?"

No, those were not the right words. I saw that immediately. "Are you really asking why I feel the way I do? Are you asking me to explain what never I have felt before, nor intended to? It is the one great mystery that drew together Adam and Eve, caused the demise of all the Bard's4 tragic players, even drew men to war.5 Yet could they explain what they knew in their heart, but knew not in their mind? I think not."

"But...Holmes, those loves were all natural. This is..."

"Unnatural?"

"If you want to go by law, whether British or a higher form, than yes."

"And is that what you feel?"

I didn't know what I felt. Physically, I could feel only the maladies that plagued me. But even healthy, he was asking for things that I never had considered. I never _had _to consider them before. According to many specialists in my own field, what he may be was considered abnormal, mentally speaking. I knew that to be caught engaging in what they were calling homosexual activities could mean being arrested, given hard labour, or in some cases even death. I had always been of the mindset that what one a person did behind closed doors was his own affair and I was certainly not one to interfere, but I couldn't say that I felt it was right to spite the law-justified or not. And so instead of answering, I studied my mud-encrusted boots and trouser cuff, which clung to my calf, dripping wet.

Holmes nodded, understanding. "I see."

"It's not that I'm angry, or disgusted, I just..."

But he interrupted with a waving hand. "I'm going to tell you something, Watson. Something that perhaps I should not have kept hidden, but I hope that you can appreciate why I did so. You had better sit...you aren't looking so well."

"I'm fine, thank you." My voice was high and tight. Not my own.

He looked at me. His eyes were wide. I wondered what was behind them. Concern? Pity? Love...he didn't look like a man in love. He looked like a man possessed. Perhaps he was. Perhaps for a man like Sherlock Holmes, love and possession were two things that were closely related. He had said that he had a disease. I didn't know any other that would confuse love with sickness. At least, not in the way he meant. He wanted a cure. But such a cure didn't exist. Unless, of course, you counted death as a cure.

"What I want to tell you," he began, "Is that the reason I left London three years ago was not entirely do to Moriarty's gang."

"And I suppose you are going to tell me that _I'm _the real reason you left." Now I had been kidding, not even being able to contemplate how I could possibly have influenced that decision, but the look he gave me was chilling. "You're serious...you really are, aren't you?"

He nodded, nervously patting his overcoat pocket, looking for his cigarette case. He was as jumpy as an alley cat. "Yes. I am. Or rather, it wasn't you so much. It was your wife."

"My..._what_?" I stood straight, ready to defend her honour above all else. Not even from he would I take any slander against my darling wife. He would be thrown off that ledge first.

"Don't overexert yourself, my friend...it is not what you are thinking. Not in the least." He reached out to grasp my shoulder, but I pulled away.

"I think I will sit down, after all." And I did, collapsing in the sodden rocky mud, leaning against the rather large boulder than had housed the good-bye note from Holmes three years ago. It was cold. Everything was so cold.

"So," said I. "You left because I married. That is what you meant, is it not? You needn't be...well, Sherlock Holmes to deduce that."

His face curled into a sad smile. Putting a hand on the rock I was huddled against, he fell to his knees next to me in the mud. Willingly dirtying himself. "You really don't give yourself enough credit in your writings, Watson."

I wasn't sure, nor did I ask, what exactly he meant.

"I thought I could let you go to her," he continued. "Or, to be more precise, I thought the best way to handle it would be to leave altogether. I knew my duel with Moriarty could end only two ways-he would die, and I would leave, pretending to as well. Or he would win, and I really would perish. Either way, the problem would be solved."

"But it wasn't only because your wife died that I returned, my friend. On my honour, the Adair murder and Colonel Moran did really play a part in it."

As always, he seemed to have read my mind. I do wish he wouldn't do so, but hadn't the heart to tell him. "I...don't...I truly don't know what to say, Holmes. About any of this. Where, exactly, do we go from here?"

"Well, I would suggest somewhere warm and dry to begin with."

"You know what I mean. Do be serious."

He glanced at me, making me wonder whether he _had _been serious. "Then I would say it all depends on you, my dear Watson. I haven't given you the answers you want to satisfaction, no doubt, but that is only because I haven't them all to give. But you have given me even less. What are you thinking?"

_Thinking? _Thinking? What was I thinking? _Was _I even thinking? I must be, but it couldn't be anything positive. I could no longer feel anything below my waist, or maybe even my entire body. My head burned and I knew I had a fever, and needed desperately to get out of this weather but something was keeping me there. Someone had wanted me here, for all of this, someone more powerful than even Sherlock Holmes. I knew what he wanted. He wanted me to say that I shared his feelings in every respect. That I too, had been hiding what I felt all these years. And that here in the freezing rain as we sat huddled together in the mud with the roar of the falls behind us, we could at last be together without fear of repercussions.

He did look hopeful, sitting there, breathing hard, wiping the rain clear of his eyes.

His hand was pale resting on his knee. It shook slightly. I imagined that it must be awfully cold. I could have taken it. And I think that part of me wanted to.

But all I could think of was what would happen. My name ruined, my career in shambles...the whispers...the speculation...the police coming to lock the both of us away...and then, when I died at last, after some years of hard labour and spending the rest of my life in disgrace only to die alone in my bed and find that I never could reach...

I may never reach Mary and all those I loved.

And as much as I knew I would do anything for this man, I knew what he was asking was too much. And so with my heart burning inside me, I turned away and said:

"I think... I think that I had better look for different lodgings for Josh and I."

I had said it. It was final. And never, for as long as I live shall I forget the look on his face when did.

It was as if part of him died. I saw under his eyes as it turned greyish and his chin as it stuck out. His chest sunk in and he seemed to lose a full inch in height. It was one of the rare moments when Sherlock Holmes was defeated. It was the only time that it was I that I had defeated him.

He rose slowly to his feet. "If that's the way you wish it."

I hadn't moved as I watched him. Would he really leave me here, just like that? I hadn't meant that...well, I didn't know what I had meant. "Holmes, wait!" I called, jumping up.

Jumping up, apparently too swiftly. My poor body, having already sustained such abuses lately finally rebelled for a final time and I felt my head instantly disconnect as if it had been ripped from my shoulders. Fluid filled my mouth and I the next thing I knew I was covered in my own vomit. My legs would not hold me up one second longer.

I saw as the rocks below seemed to be rushing up quickly to meet me.

"Take care, man!" A voice said, and Holmes long arms were around me. "You nearly fell, you fool!"

"Did I?" It felt more like flying then falling.

His hand, icy cold, was suddenly on my head. "Good God, Watson...you're burning with fever! I thought you looked a little off-colour, but you're terribly sick."

"Oh...don't be ridiculous...I never get sick."

"Ha! Well, there's a first time for everything! You've got a part of the charming influenza outbreak that at the moment is ravaging our fair city. No doubt your recent injury severely weakened your immunity. Come along."

Despite the fact that I was covered in my own sickness, he had one arm around me, under my armpit, allowing me to lean my weight against him as he was leading me down the path toward the Hostel.

"You'll need at least a week of rest. And someone to watch over you." He was saying.

"I need a good doctor, eh?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to settle for me." He paused, adjusting his grip on my arm. "Unless you would rather I sent for someone else."

I leaned harder against him. I was having a time of it just making my feet move. Was that the rain at last letting up? I couldn't tell for sure. The mountains smelled glorious. Like virgin snow, the first of the winter. And for some reason, I can't swear it wasn't delirium, I laughed. "There's no one I'd rather have, you fool."

_Well, school starts back up in a few days. I'm going to really try and whip this out as fast as I can, but it may be awhile. I promise to do the best I can. _

1 He does, in SCAN.

2 As if on fire

3 Alfred, Lord Tennyson

4 Shakespeare, in case anyone didn't know

5 The Trojan war, for instance.


	10. Chapter 10

_Thanks for the reviews! And no worries, I would never abandon this or any other story. That's just wrong. This chapter was originally going to be longer, but I liked where this ended up. Thanks for putting up with my snail's speed of movement._

Being ill with influenza (which I have never had, not even once) was very different from a coma, obviously. I remember most of what happened over the next several days, or at least I thought I did, but for the most part I simply slept. I had more sleep in the month of December of that year that one would wonder why I ever needed to lay down again. Holmes kept his word, I assumed, and did indeed stay with me most hours of the day.

However, I was not as cognizant as I would have thought because I was more than a little surprised when I awoke to a bright afternoon, feeling cool and comfortable. My fever had broken. And my son was sitting over me on the bed, starring intently.

Now one is not normally used to awakening and seeing into two large blue eyes belonging to someone else. That would be why I sat up, banging my head on the headboard.

"What the Devil?...Oh, it's...Josh, you nearly put me into an early grave!"

"No, sir, I didn't! I couldn't put you anywhere! You're very big and I'm very small!"

"It's a figure of speech, boy," said I, not especially caring for his analogy, whether innocent or not. "What on Earth are you doing here?"

"Uncle brought me on the train," he said, flopping hard next to me. "It took a very long time. But it was very fun 'cause I've never been on one. We went so fast I thought we were flying."

Actually, it wasn't true. Josh had been on a train once. About a year and a half ago, his mother, he and I took a holiday at Cornwall, right on the beach. He had just forgotten. But I never would.

"You were asleep for an ever long time, Papa. Are you done being tired?" I must have looked rather confused for he added: "Uncle said you were dreadfully tired and needed to sleep for a few days."

I smiled. It was a simple observation for Holmes to make, but I enjoyed it nonetheless. "I _am_ feeling rather better, yes," said I, patting his soft little head. "And I'm very glad Holmes brought you here. I feel positively vile that we haven't seen each other much of late." And it was true, I did. I certainly didn't want him growing up feeling ignored by his father, as I had, only to see him die at a young age, never really knowing the kind of man he was.

"That's all right," the boy said. "Because tonight is Christmas Eve. Father Christmas will come tonight! You got untired just in time, Papa." He paused, looking terribly pensive for several seconds. "He will find us _here, _won't he, Papa? Because last year we were in our house that we had with Mummy. Will he know to bring my presents here to Switzerland?"

Normally, I am always somewhat relieved and amused when Josh asks me questions that don't correlate with the meaning of life or some other some such thing that I cannot begin to answer. But this one filled me with regret. Regret that I realized I hadn't time to shop for him do to circumstances, and how in the world could I explain that he was going to have a bare Christmas? Perhaps I could explain that Father Christmas really _would _not be able to find us here, and he would have to wait until we got back to London. Our perhaps there were shops near here, in the town, and I could persuade Holmes to go there and buy a few things.

"I...well, Josh..." I began, stalling for time.

"But of course he will find you here! Of all the learned men in the world, one must rank Father Christmas among the most ingenious. If he can find every other child on this planet, than I should think that he shouldn't misplace one who just happens to be away for the Holidays. I wouldn't worry, John Sherlock. I expect that this shall indeed be a happy Christmas for us all," said Holmes, appearing suddenly in the doorway, grinning madly.

"Are you certain, Uncle?"

"Have I lied to yet, my boy?"

Josh shook his head and beamed, delighted no doubt at the prospect of all the presents he would receive. So with his head filled with bobbles and trinkets and sugar plums1, he skipped out of the room I was in, saying that he was going to go write down a letter for him to throw into the fire.2

Holmes smiled and patted his head as he left, leaving me feeling more than a little guilty, I can assure you. "Was that really necessary?" I asked. "Making him false promises? You know that I hadn't had the time or health to buy him any gift. I was on the verge of postponing this whole thing until we were home..."

"Postpone Christmas? Now that hardly seems the holiday spirit, Watson."

"But..."

He held up a finger, placing it to his lips. As quietly as a mouse, he made his way over to a rather ugly, stained oak cupboard that stood opposite my bedstead. As he opened one side of it, I saw a huge mountain of various sized packages, all wrapped in various bright golds, silvers and reds and tied with tinsel. Some, like the food items including walnuts, oranges, gingerbread and peppermint sticks were in clear bags tied with blue ribbon. There was a beautiful rocking horse with a real bridle and reigns that swung from springs and coils, rather than just rocked back and forth. One package had to be a drum-it was circular. And there were books, sweets, boxes of every shape and size...I had to swallow back just taking it all in. I had never imagined...

"Where-I mean how did you manage to do all of this? Really, Holmes, I am quite speechless."

He instantly lost the gleeful expression that he wore and took one of more dignity and arrogance that I expected from him. "Now, Watson, do you think me so inexperienced and impassive that I would expect a child, even a gifted child like John Sherlock, not to expect to have what every child wants on this most special of days? I would hardly be fulfilling my duty as his Godfather if I led him all the way here for a bare Christmas, now wouldn't I?"

"It is quite remarkable...I don't know how I can...I mean, I _can _repay you of course, but only monetarily...not in...well..."

For a brief second, he narrowed his eyes contentiously and I knew that I must have turned red for I felt the familiar fever flush over me momentarily. I should have realized how that could have been interpreted, although it was not at all how I meant. I had meant that I could not repay him for what he had done emotionally, first by bringing my son to me, and then by securing that he would have a happy Christmas. I hadn't meant that I would dream of repaying him in any physical...God, to even think the thought made me nervous and quite uneasy.

"I knew what you meant," Holmes said at last, clearing the look from his face, thankfully. "I think we can call this repayment in itself. Repayment for all of the things I have said and done to you over the years that I now regret. And of course, for not throwing me off the ledge of Reichenbach when you most certainly had an understandable chance to do so."

Oh, how I wished that I could have laid my head back upon that soft pillow and slept forever, never having to have this most unavoidable of conversations with him. But I knew that where the last one had ended was not really an end at all, but more a beginning rather. And I was dreading it.

"Er-about what happened, Holmes. Don't you think"-

"No, I don't," he interrupted tersely. "Not now anyhow. For now, for the sake of Josh if nothing else, the two of us shall enjoy a comfortable holiday over this holy day, and be in the mindset that nothing between us has changed. If indeed you believe anything has. If you are unwilling in that respect, I shall have to insist. We can call it your Christmas gift to me."

"I am more than agreeable. You needn't worry."

"Capital." He smiled once again, the same brief and nearly worrisome smile that previous to these events I only found upon his face during especially troublesome cases. That is, cases he feared he may not be able to win. You may call this whole situation such a case. "How are you feeling?" He asked as an afterthought.

"Physically far more like myself than I have in months."

He nodded. "Than you shall notice that I brought you some clothes and your dressing case. It _is _Christmas Eve after all, Watson. And I have a goose and pudding being prepared to send up in a short while. I think even I can do with a good meal tonight."

The meal was delicious. Not only goose and plum pudding, but sweetbreads, rice croquettes, peas, Parisian salad, potatoes a la Maitre, and even turtle soup. For dessert, besides the wonderfully decadent pudding, there was also a mincemeat pie and macaroons. Holmes and I drank the local red wine of an excellent vintage with the feast and heavily rich café noir for dessert. It was a feast fit for a king, but Holmes had insisted that the Haus (for we were back in the Englischer Haus of the last adventure) was deserted for the Holidays, and the staff were eager to supply us with anything their only guests might require. I ate more than my fair share, partly in attempt to compensate for the days of sickness, and partly to avoid thinking unpleasant and unworthy thoughts.

After dinner, Holmes built up the fire and we sat around on cushions on the floor watching the candles of the tree glow. For there was a tree of course. Holmes had left nothing out. I never would have thought him capable of all this. Or not so much capable as willing. It was...incredible.

We sang carols at Josh's insistence, although there are very few that he knows the words to yet. I initially protested, as I have never had a singing voice, but with even Holmes goading me on, I managed to get through 'Silent Night', 'The First Nowell3' and 'Good King Wenceslas'-(which Josh pronounces 'Good King Wenches'). Holmes, on the other hand, has a very agreeable voice, something I never paid a mind to before, although I had heard him sing, however occasionally.

"Wherever did you learn to sing like that?" I was compelled to ask.

"What makes you think I _learned _it anywhere?" He seemed almost put off by my question.

"It's only"-

"At school, I sang in the choir," he interrupted. "Indeed, though, before I came of age and faced the unbearable reality of all young male altos in puberty, I truly had the voice of an angel. I was lucky I was able to withhold any of my ability."

"You do have a lovely voice," I said without thinking.

He gazed at me wondrously. "Thank you, Watson."

And then I found myself staring at his curled form on the floor, relaxed with his boots and jacket off; his collar undone, the smoke from his recently lit pipe swirling about him...the outline of his body engulfed by the crackling flames. He looked younger than he actually was, younger than we both were.4 I saw how the light darkened his pallor complexion, and highlighted the black slickness of his hair. Shadows danced around the circles of his eyes, and I could smell the wine on him. He looked very vulnerable. Very un-Holmesian. Very human.

He knew I was looking at him. Knew before I did myself. He could have asked why I was looking at him in such a way. But he did not. He didn't say anything, in fact. We sat in that very...suggestive manner for some minutes until Josh moved to climb in my lap, and I awoken from my self made trance. I jumped to my feet and swiped him into my arms.

"Come along," I said to him. "I'll tell you the Christmas story of the baby Jesus before you go to sleep. And then..."

"Father Christmas! Presents!"

"Yes, yes."

"Good-night, John," Holmes said, not moving from his spot on the floor.

"Good-night, Uncle!"

I opened my mouth to respond, but no sound came out. For I had only heard him call me by my Christian name once, and that was in a moment of emotional distress. Yet he always referred to my son either by Josh, or more usually, John Sherlock. I actually wanted to say something at that moment. No, I didn't just want to say something. I think...I think I wanted to go to him. To stay with him by that oh so comfortable fire and even just sit forever, taking in the vulnerability he seemed to let me absorb this night. He was not iron or steel but flesh.

Something dashed through my mind. I couldn't place the quote but it went such as 'the thread breaks where it is weakest'5. And I knew that I had found his one weakness. It was a weakness such as I would never have imagined, and it was one that could have been his very un-doing. I alone knew it. And I could not stop thinking of this. The gifts...caring for me after I had rejected him...his voice raised in song...it was all the little things.

Was I out of my right mind? Or coming to it?

It would be several more months before I would arrive at the answer. But it would at last come to me in a way that pains my memory. But at last I would come to know just how much Sherlock Holmes would risk for me.

And I for he.

1In case anyone was wondering, I checked to make sure the reference to "The Night Before Christmas" was historically accurate. It was published in 1823, so Watson, Holmes, and Josh were probably familiar with it.

2 A British tradition of the time for children to throw their letters to Father Christmas in the fire because, of course, he can read smoke!

3 This is the original, Old English spelling

4Of course, no one knows exactly how old Holmes and Watson were because they never give the years of their births, except in 'His Last Bow' which is mis-leading if you do the math. Both would have to have been born in 50's, and because Josh is so young and I want the two of them around for a long while, I'm going to make them both slightly younger than they probably would be. Therefore, because he is slightly older, in this year, 1894, Watson would be 38, and Holmes about 36 or 37. Of course, back then, that was considered close to middle aged.

5 Geroge Herbert, from his book on _Outlandish Proverbs_ (1640)


	11. Chapter 11

_Thanks for the reviews! I'm over a hundred! Yea! It's longer this time, so enjoy..._

Christmas, to me, as it is for most people, is a time of family togetherness and happy reflection on all one has. Even during my tumultuous upbringing, I remember nothing but happiness during the Holidays, even with my withdrawn Father, bitter brother and overzealous mother. Christmas was the time when we seemed the most together and thought of the birth of our Saviour and how that affected our lives.

Christmas Eve night in 1894 was not exactly a time that I spent thinking on religion, family togetherness or happy reflection. It was a long, utterly sleepless night that I lay in a cold bed starring at the shadows of an unfamiliar room, thinking on the subjects of romantic love and brotherly love and how in our society the two should never meet. In my mind, never previous had they. But although I had convinced myself that it was only stress that was changing my very core of beliefs-I thought of things that night that even now in my dying years in something that shall probably never be read-I feel it hard to admit what I was thinking. However, because I swore an oath to myself not to euphemise this memoir, I will tell you despite my guilt for thinking such unholy thoughts on that most holy of days:

I wondered if Holmes was truly a homosexual attracted to men, or was it just myself?

Had he ever been engaged sexually with another man? The thought seemed utterly strange and preposterous.

Did he...well, _abuse _himself over his love for me?

Well, I did think all of those things that night for the first time although I was hardly to the point of wanting answers. No, it was more curiosity then anything else. Perhaps pure morbid and hormonal curiosity. But mostly that night, I simply wanted to know- why me? What was it about myself that attracted him? He had said that he couldn't explain it. But surely there most be a reason for it. A heart is easily given and taken, but always there is reason behind this most sacred of emotions. What was his?

Those were all questions to which eventually I would have answers, although some would take years to get.

I awoke with very little sleep on Christmas morning yet with a determining thought in my mind. And that was not to think on the subject. There would be more than enough time for that. But for now, I wanted simply to enjoy this holiday. I didn't want to pollute my mind with rhetorical questions and lay in dread that I was becoming something I didn't understand in other men, let alone myself.

Feeling lazy, I bothered not to dress and simply put on my dressing gown over my nightshirt before adjoining to next room, where in the snowy accented window a heavy orange light was creeping over the Alps with progressing speed. It was cold, as it was at six thousand feet nearly any season, but the snow mass was low this year I had come to hear, and the winter mild. We would be able to walk into town and I delighted in the fact that I could show Josh something of this quiet Swiss village. For I wanted him exposed to other countries and cultures, so that he may not think that Bond Street1 represented the whole of European civilization.

Sometime during the night, Father Christmas-Holmes had arrived to leave a veritable fortune of treasure for my son, although it was strange that I hadn't heard him come into my room. The thought scared me slightly although I couldn't say why except that I was glad of him being on the right side of the law. He would have made an excellent burglar. There was one present, however, that I recognized and shook my head in amazement. It was my gift for Holmes that I had had ordered from a catalogue during the first days of my long recovery in Baker Street. Indeed it was the only present I had time to order, having not realized what would happen. Mrs. Hudson had told me the day it arrived, but I had asked her to keep it for me until Christmas Eve. I feared Josh's curiosity may lead him to it in my room. But how had Holmes...well, I suppose Mrs. Hudson had given it to him to take for our Christmas. I was glad of it. Glad that I had something for him. And was eager to see the look on his face upon opening it.

"He came! He came!"

All in one second I had gone from sitting in the morning light watching the silent tree glow to being bombarded by Josh, exuberant at the sight of all that lay before him. "Papa! Father Christmas came! Just like Uncle said he would! He really does know everything!"

I turned to see Holmes standing next to me, grinning with a great deal of emotion at what he had created and I was instantly filled myself with holiday spirit. Normally the man detested the Holidays. Why, he never exactly said, but I took it to be his own inactive religious convictions as well as disregard for the unity that Christmas inevitably brought with it do to his Bohemian lifestyle. But here he was, smiling and joyful as any child and I was happy without meaning to be.

"Don't tell him such things, Josh," said I. "He has enough ego as it is."

Besides the rocking horse, drum and enough sweets to cause a massive belly ache, Josh received several books and his own lens which he loved, I think more than anything else. But at last all of his gifts were exhausted and Holmes said to me "I now have a present for you, Watson."

He handed me a small, flat package tied with red ribbon. It had a very refreshing smell to it, and as soon as I had the paper off, I saw that it was a book. But not just any book; a blank one, similar to the kinds I used to take notes on Holmes' cases. But it was clear to me that this one was far finer than any I would ever think of using at home.

"It is Turkish leather," Holmes said. "Bound in Constantinople2 and stamped with your monograph in my presence by a family that has specialised in book-binding and tanning for four generations."

It was then that I noticed the "JHW" carved on the front. The leather was clearly first-rate as indeed it felt smooth and rich in my hands. "It's...wonderful, Holmes," I said, tracing those letters with one finger. "Thank you." I couldn't begin to explain how much it meant that he took my writing serious with this gift. "I have no idea what I'll use it for, though. It seems too exceptional to record just anything in."

"You'll think of something," He said with a brief smile that showed he was pleased I was delighted with it.

"Well, it amazes me that Mrs. Hudson both wrapped this and gave it to you to bring, and although I know you could easily guess what it is, I suppose I'll let you open it anyhow." I picked up the small box that I had expected it to come in, and handed my gift to him.

"It is not as though I _couldn't _have figured out what it was," he explained. "But that would have ruined the surprise. And surprise is the spice of life."

"I thought that was variety."

"Perhaps both." He carefully removed the gold paper and ribbon Mrs. Hudson had used and pulled out an oak and cherry box. The silver watch glistened in the sun and he carefully pulled it out dangling it from his right hand. The 'SH' I'd had engraved swirled round and round anti-clockwise. It swung slightly, as if he were hypnotising us with it.

"Ooh," said Josh. "That's a pretty watch." He immediately reached out to grab it.

"'Pretty' is hardly an appropriate word," Holmes informed him haughtily, holding it out of reach. "It is pre-eminent. Far more than I deserve." He looked at me with narrowed eyes, and I was completely thunderstruck. Wasn't he pleased? I had gotten him far less impressive, far less expensive presents over the years and he always seemed appreciative and delighted with them. In his own dispassionate way of course. But now he seemed...well, perhaps angry was a bit strong, but...was it sadness? I couldn't be sure.

"Well?" I at last was compelled to ask. "Do you like it or not? By the expression on your face I couldn't tell if you thought it any better than a dead rat."

His face flashed over to me upon my words and immediately softened. His fist closed over the gift and he delicately placed it back in the wooden box. He handled it like most would handle holding an infant for the first time. "Of course I like it. Only a fool would not. But..."

"But, _what_?"

He glanced at me quickly, and I knew the argument had gone through him like a bolt of lightening as to whether he should tell me or not. I lost, it was apparent. "Never mind. It is a brilliant watch, and always shall I treasure it, my dear Watson. Thank you. And now," he added, conveniently changing the subject. "There is one last thing that commands your attention. It arrived to Baker Street the very morning I turned up to retrieve John Sherlock, and I have kept it for you until you were well enough to read it."

He handed me a small package tied with Butcher's paper and wrapped with string addressed to me in thin, brownish ink. "Who on Earth..." I began, but then I saw the return address, and knew. "It's from my sister."

"Yes. I realize that."

"Why would she send me a package?" I wondered aloud.

"Perhaps if you open it, you shall find out why."

In it was a small gift, also wrapped in brown Butcher's paper and addressed to 'Master Watson.' I frowned at it, but before I could comment, Josh had spied it and was ripping it out of my hands.

"It's for me!" he exclaimed. "Only who is it from?"

"Your aunt," I replied, pulling out a carefully folded letter. It read:

_Dear brother-_

_My compliments of the season and my wishes that the Lord is in your life. I received your letters on both the birth of your son and the death of your wife. You have my sympathies of the latter. Excuse the lateness of the reply, but I felt decorum stipulated I wait until an opportune time to visit the both of you. I feel at last we must put aside any feelings of malice we may harbour as we are, as you know, the last of our family._

_I will come by the 10:30 o'clock train to Victoria Station the morning of 15 January and will hope that you will meet me there. I have enclosed a gift for the child, and it is he that I wish to visit with you about._

_A Happy Christmas and a Prosperous New Year,_

_Your Sister,_

_Abigail_

Believe me when I say that I had to read it several times before it sunk in. Why was she writing to me now? The two or three letters we had sent each other in the last decade were the only means of communication we had and even those had been times of great importance, when we had little choice but to communicate, despite the fact that she lived only two hours from London in our child-hood home in Kent.

"It was obvious not of immediate importance," Holmes said, lighting a pipe. "Otherwise I should have been compelled to open it. As it was not, I saved it for this morning."

"How do you know it was of no immediate importance?"

"Because of course if your sister needed you to know something immediately, I would think that she would have telegrammed."

My holiday spirit was diminishing fast. "You evidently know little of my sister."

It was the wrong thing to say to Sherlock Holmes. His eyes widened as he glared at me, as if I had somehow offended him. "And I would have thought you, Watson, would have known _me _better."

"I can make an adduction," Josh said to his uncle.

Holmes smiled with pleasure. "And what is that, John Sherlock?"

"My aunt doesn't know me at all." He held up his present, a picture book with little or no words. "This book is for babies." He paused. "If I have an aunt, why haven't I met her, Papa?"

_Because she has never asked to meet you. Because I despise her self-serving ways. Because she cannot empathize with anyone else. _These were the real reasons why. But of course, I was not about to say such things to my son. "Well, according to this letter, Josh, you shall at last meet her."

"You look as though you are not pleased about that, Watson."

I handed him the letter I knew his omnipotent mind was dying to analyze. "If you knew Abigail, you would understand why."

For several minutes, he read over her letter, looking at in every possible light, before discarding it. He then picked up the remains of the package examining every inch of it, even the string it was wrapped in. "On the contrary, Doctor, I feel I have a fairly good grasp of your sister." He paused and the scientific light of his eyes seemed to dim slightly. "But perhaps you would rather I didn't take the liberty. After all, the last time, on the matter of your brother..."

"No, no," I replied. "Proceed. I haven't seen her since my brother died in '82 and I haven't even received a letter since she declined to come to my wedding. Although I can guess at her character now, indeed you may know more than I."

He held the letter up with a nod. "To begin, this paper is curious enough as it is. No header. Plain yet heavy and good quality writing paper suggests two things to me in this case: first, that your sister is unmarried, and second, that this is not her own correspondence paper."

"How do you figure that?" I asked, confused somewhat.

"The vast majority of men, especially middle to upper class country men, have there own personal writing paper. It is less common among women. But have you noticed that although this paper is reasonably expensive, the ink used is dirt cheap? Not only cheap, but old, suggesting the writer has little need for it. The pen, too, is not in the best of shape. Look how the words appear smeared slightly. The nub is broken, I should think. Now, few men would allow the use of broken pens and cheap ink, as well as no personal paper. Therefore, your sister is unmarried, lives alone, and borrowed this paper from somewhere else."

"I...I don't know," I admitted. "Yes, I am sure she is unmarried. Surely she would have written to me if she had. But the paper..."

"No one who would use such spotty instruments is going to take the time to buy reasonably priced paper. I would guess...hmm, _my wishes that the Lord is in your life._" He frowned. "She obtained the paper from some sort of volunteer organization. A religious organization, at that, for there is little else in the desolate country side for a woman."

It felt as though my stomach had collapsed into my knees. "Yes, that does sound like her."

"And this string. Did you notice how brittle it had gotten? It is obviously not very new. The paper as well. Now a woman who uses old Butcher's paper and old string suggests to me that she does not go into town much. Probably just for church and her organization, as yet unknown. If you put all of this together, I would think your sister is a spinster, middle-aged, overtly religious, a bit...thrifty, shall we say, and rather retiring from society. How's that, my dear fellow?"

"Incredibly accurate," said I, feeling a twinge of shock. It is something that never entirely goes away with my friend. "But what you cannot possibly explain is why she wants to see me after all these years. The last time I saw her was at my brother's funeral, and she said...well, things that bear no repeating. But the message was plain as the nose on your face that she cared little to further our relationship."

"And why is that?" He looked genuinely interested, sitting there chewing in his pipe and peering at me with a heavy grey expression. But it was the sort of look reserved for any client, a look of intellectual curiosity, and not concern. And so I was compelled to answer:

"I don't care to speak on it, thanks."

"But you are worried about it," He said. _No, he didn't say it, he stated it. _

"Why, Papa? Is my aunt a bad person?"

I looked from one of them to the other. It felt rather like being interrogated. And I didn't like that in the least. "Come along, the both of you. After all this merriment, I feel I should like some breakfast."

Holmes titled his head slightly, before standing and tapping the remains of his pipe into an empty brandy decanter. "Then I shall ring for some." He made no further comment.

Holmes, Josh and I stayed in Meiringen through the New Year and all of a week after. I was perfectly healthy again, and more certain of it this time. My stubborn constitution had rid my body of all traces of influenza, and all that remained of my gunshot wound was a purple round scar, several centimetres in length.

The rest of the holiday was rather pleasant. We took Josh to the old church on Kirchgasse, a famous enough Romanesque building of the fourteenth century that Holmes and I knew attracted holiday makers of our own country.3 Holmes pocketed a bit of the wooden spire to put in his semi-museum at home. We learned that the British Museum back home also had trinkets from this very church. We also went to one of Switzerland's many chocolate shops, one of the finest ever I've tasted. The townspeople were exceedingly friendly and hospitable and for the first time in months, I enjoyed the sights and sounds of other people without guilt, fear or exclusion.

But the best parts of that unexpected holiday were the early evening walks the three of us enjoyed every day. Holmes had taken on a quiet form these days since Christmas, which was hardly unusual for him. He occasionally was silent for days at a time home in Baker Street, although when I reflected on the matter, I realized that these periods of disregard toward me had grown fewer and farther between as the years progressed. When he did speak on those walks, it was most often to Josh and was most often on the chemical composition of certain rocks or indigenous Alpine creatures. Josh found these facts far more intriguing than I, far more in fact than a three-year old ought to have. I could have joined in, I suppose, or changed the subject, but I was lost in my own thoughts. Part of me wished never to return to London. I could have enjoyed to sweet mountain air and avoided the thick fog of the city forever.

The day before we were due to leave Meiringen, Holmes at last spoke to me about what was clearly on the both of our minds. The sun was just beginning its descent behind the jagged white mountains that enclosed us, and the sky was shades of colours that I never even imagined existed in nature. It was cold of course, but the combination of exercise and body-heat from walking close was warming enough. Holmes had sent Josh skipping ahead on a journey for an igneous volcanic rock or something of the like, and we seemed alone in the growing darkness.

"What will you do, Watson?" He suddenly asked. "When we arrive home to London?"

I knew what he meant, but feigned innocence. "How do you mean, Holmes?"

He looked at me out of the corner of his eye and I was compelled to try not to smile. "When last we spoke, you had said you were leaving. 221 B, I mean. I suppose you will start looking for new lodgings?"

I watched his breath as it curled out his nose and mouth. So much hopeful steam. Instantly, I felt an unmistakable pain of battle rage at my heart and mind. I didn't want to leave, I knew that much. But this was not a matter or want; it was one of need. What if...God above how I was sick of that phrase. No. No more what ifs. I would not go down that street any longer. There was no purpose in it. And so I told him, "I shall make no decisions until after my sister leaves. I cannot think on both right now."

"You do know, Watson," he said, as we crunched along a snowy path back toward the Englischer Haus. "That you can trust me."

He was so close that I could feel the wool of his coat brush against my own. I swallowed heavily. "Trust you how?" I asked quietly.

He seemed surprised. "If you need help. With your sister. You can trust to tell me what is on your mind."

Relief flooded through me so intently that I could have taken his hand. "There isn't much to tell. Abigail is five years my junior. Our relationship can best be explained in that she was very close to our father, and Henry and I were close to our mother. She was only nine when he died and that devastated her. Soon after, our mother was taken ill. Tuberculosis. Henry had already left to make his way in the world, and I was to go away to school. I think Abby rather resented me for leaving her alone, but what was I to do? I was but fourteen."

"You needn't convince me," Holmes said nearly gently. "How came this feud that lasts to this day?"

"When our mother died, I was in my second year of University. I hope you shall understand that I was devastated. It was genuinely believed, although I never said it, that I was Mother's favourite."

"I could see that." Holmes smiled grimly. "And so, if I would be allowed a conjecture? You did not attend your mother's funeral, and your sister"-

"I couldn't! For God's sake, I just could not bear to see my own mother like that! If you think that cowardice of me"-

"I do not," he said, gripping my arm. "Calm yourself, Watson. You forget yourself."

I pulled my arm away, perhaps a little too rapidly, but he surprised me. "I...apologize," I said, immediately. "I meant nothing."

"I know." He nervously stuck his hands in his pockets. He looked rather like a boy that had been reprimanded by his schoolmaster. "And so what happened next? Was it your brother?"

"As always, you anticipate it before I say it. Abigail was furious that I did not attend our mother's funeral. Then, when Henry died many years later, as a method of revenge I took it, she sent me our father's watch, but didn't tell me of the funeral until after it was over. I will admit, that my relationship with my brother was strained in his last years. He drinking was out of control, and...well, when we were younger we were close. Despite the eight years age difference. I wanted to be there. It was just spite on her part. And so, I went to Kent...and we, we had words. She said...it doesn't exactly matter what she said. Suffice to say that she and I both agreed it would be better not to see each other again. And so, except for a few letters, we haven't. I thought neither of us was willing to forgive the other. I cannot imagine why she all of a sudden..."

"I fear..." he began, but then closed his mouth.

"What?"

"Nothing. You have enough on your plate as it is." He turned to look at me. "I should never have told you what I did, Watson, to bring you here. It was terribly wrong to spring all of this on you. I've been horridly selfish."

Holmes was admitting selfishness? His ego actually was allowing such a thing? And for my benefit? "Holmes," I said, turning round to face him. "I..."

"Yes?"

"I..."

"Well?"

No.

I couldn't.

"You were not wrong to tell me," said I. But that was all I could say. For now.

The journey back to England was not nearly as long as the previous. In fact, because I was none too eager to return, it went all too quickly. It was late at night when we arrived home to the Motherland, and Josh and Holmes were both asleep. Josh was curled up on my lap gripping his lens tightly in a pink fist, exhausted after hours spend observing people who passed us on the trains and boats. It was eerie to me how accurate he was.

His small chest was rising and falling, and he made this slurping sound in the back of his throat. I rested my hand on his head. It was brilliantly soft.

Looking over, I saw Holmes was awake. He was smiling genuinely, not his steely whippish grin that I came to associate with him. He reached out slowly to touch Josh's cheek. Our hands were practically next to each other. And then, in a sudden moment of unreason, I took it and held it there in my own. Damn it all...

He wasn't especially surprised, nor did he move. No, we just sat there, for several moments, the three of us. Like a family. It was rather like a family.

"I worry"- I began.

"Don't" said Holmes. "Please. Don't speak. Not yet."

And so I didn't. It was just the dark of the train and the noise of it passing the points.

The fifteenth dawned early for me, and although Abigail's train was not do in until half past ten, I left as soon as I awoke. I couldn't bare to be in the house alone with my thoughts. I craved civilization.

I was far more nervous than I ought to be when I arrived at Victoria Station, half an hour early. It could have been a premonition on my part, knowing now what I didn't know then. However, I think more so it was that I knew my sister. And I knew that I didn't trust her motives.

The weather had cleared nicely for January, and it was an unusually bright wintry day. Everyone seemed to be in a jolly mood, extending the holiday spirit, and though I didn't exactly feel it myself, I tipped to everyone I passed and even stopped briefly to chat with a chap who was a former patient. But all the while, I could feel my own anxiety. Partly this had to be doing to what had just happened with Holmes. But another part of me knew that whatever Abigail was doing here, it would not be good.

Stopping at the agent, I found that my sister's train was do in exactly on time, and would be coming in on Platform 10. The station was packed with holiday-makers, the majority returning home and I tried to look inconspicuous leaning on my stick, watching teary eyed good-byes and farewells from parting families and lovers. Josh would have loved to be there to see all the shiny engines chugging smoke and steam from the stacks as they rolled in to the station. They still even held a certain amount of appeal to me, and I had been on more trains than I could even count. But I knew there was a reason I had elected to leave him at home. What that was, I didn't know, but I trusted the feeling brewing within my stomach.

As the train rolled in, I had but one question on my mind: Would I even recognize her, and she me? We hadn't seen each other in nearly twelve years. She had not even been twenty and three, aged prematurely by having to care for our sick mother. And I suppose that I, too, only twenty and eight, acted far too brazenly and immaturely than I should have. But neither of us would have imagined that at 15 and 20, respectively, the loss of our mother would have perpetuated an 18-year long family feud.

Her train was crowded. It was odd that we lived only a few hours apart, and yet it may as well have been a few years. I stood off rather to the side, watching as a young woman with a daughter came out first, followed by a vicar, a group of teenage school boys, an old lady clutching an umbrella, a bootblack, and finally...

I knew it was her. There was no worries as to my not recognizing her. She walked with the same straight-laced demeanour that our mother had always tried to instil within her daughter. And suddenly, in my throat, everything went dry and heavy. She saw me nearly at the same moment I her.

"John!" She called waving, still standing on the steps. "Here I am!"

I waved with a forced smile, rather more enthusiastically then I felt. This was not going to go down well, this I knew in both my heart and mind.

Abigail approached me carrying a Gladstone and her own trunk, as assertive as always. I took a few seconds to really study her; to try and apply Holmes' methods, but while I have had some success in the past, I was completely lost with my own sister. I could see her only as the source of a nearly two decades row that provided no simple useful data, simply a lot of hurt feelings.

She bore a striking resemblance to our late father. It was appropriate given how close the two were. There are, of course, some traits that nearly all Watsons' in my immediate family shared-including average height, a thick build and common brown eyes. Indeed, Josh was the first Watson I remembered in three generations with blue eyes. Abigail had all of these familial characteristics, but like our father had also a long nose, thin lips and disproportioned hands and feet. One can excuse such unattractive features in males, but in a female judged more harshly, it was not an appealing combination. She had possessed a certain amount of prettiness and grace in her youth, but years of strict living and devotion to her 'religious obligations' had prematurely aged her face, lined heavily with wrinkles on very tanned skin. I was sure that was it. Her hair was up of course, most of it hidden behind a country bonnet that looked out of place among the flowered and feathered hats ladies in the city wore. Her dress, too, was out of fashion enough that even I could recognise, and I was hardly an authority of women's fashion. No wedding ring. Unfamiliar and unwilling with fashion. And a cross. I didn't remember seeing it before, but it was plain and gold and hung down to her bosom. It was the only adornment she wore, and briefly I wondered were she had gotten it. But one thing was clear. It seemed all of Holmes' observations of her letter fit. I had little doubt they wouldn't have, of course.

"Well," she greeted me, as I quickly kissed her cheek. "Where is he?"

"Who?"

"The boy obviously! Where's little...what was it you nicknamed him?"

"Josh," I told her, more than a little taken aback. This was hardly the greeting I expected. "And he is at home. I thought it best for us to talk before you met."

"Ta! How utterly ridiculous! The entire reason I _came _to London is to meet my only nephew!" She lifted her trunk with some ease and slung it into my side, forcing me to take it.

"Abigail, you and I haven't spoken in 12 years, except for a few overtly courteous letters. And the last time we did, we cut ties completely. If I recall it correctly, when Mother died, you said I was a self-important coward and you hoped that when I went to Afghanistan, I would take a bullet through the heart." I rubbed my shoulder where it twinged in sympathetic consideration. "You were a bit to the north, but not entire off the mark." To this day I recall how angry she was when she said those words. However, my sister was not the sort of woman to let emotions cloud her thoughts. When she had yelled that at me, she had been perfectly composed, her eyes cold as ice. No tears from Abigail Watson. She would have sooner spit on me.

"You've grown a moustache," she said, eying me critically, as if this were the normal response. "I think you were suited for married life. When do you plan to start looking for another wife?"

I nearly dropped the trunk. As it was, I stepped in front of a surly looking fellow rushing toward his quickly departing train, receiving a dirty gesture in return. "What on God's green Earth sort of question is that? The last thing I am concerned of now is remarriage. I've only just lost Mary four months ago! Good Lord, Abigail, that truly was vicious Even for you."

"Tosh. It is a reasonable question when a child is at sake. You must remarry eventually. The child must have a mother!"

"The _child _does have a mother. She is simply dead. I cannot change that, Abigail, no matter how much I wish it. Cab!" We were outside now, and already I was angry. I had known it would be like this. I had know it. Together five minutes and already we were quarrelling.

My sister climbed in, and she gave our destination as the Albert Hotel, where she was to stay. "It is a necessary expensive, of course." She said. "For I did not wish to crowd you."

"Yes, I am afraid it would be a crowd. For there are no spare rooms in the flat. I have one bedroom, Holmes the other and we were compelled to turn the attic into a room for Josh."

As soon as I said it, I knew that it was wrong. I could not certainly have hidden the fact that I lived with Holmes for very long, but there was nothing but silence. Horrid silence before my sister gave me the most stunned look. "What is this, John? You...You, Josh, and...another man?"

"Sherlock Holmes. Do you mean to say that you have never read any of my accounts of his cases? If you had, you would certainly know that he and I work together. Why should we share the same house out of convenience?"

"Well, you do at least employ a nurse, do you not?" The look on her face was one of pure disgust.

"I did," said I, now feeling equally spiteful. "But Holmes and I tend to him ourselves. Our landlady helps as well."

If she found this shocking, she did not let on. Rather she sat straight as rod all the way until the hotel. I helped her out and fetched the bags at the same time as I was throwing coin at the driver.

"I'll see you up to your room," I told her. But instead, she grabbed the trunk and Gladstone with a fierceness all her own.

"No, I shall manage myself. I feel I need a rest after the trip. I'll come round to see you tomorrow morning for tea. I expect the child to be there, John. And you and I apparently have much to discuss as to his welfare."

"Indeed? And what would that be?"

"That would be," she said with my Father's eyes blazing. "that if I find you are not adequately providing for him, I shall be compelled to take him from you."

1 Bond Street is the London equivalent to Wall Street

2 Now Istanbul

3 Indeed, this includes Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who stayed there many times. Nowadays there is a Sherlock Holmes Museum in Meiringen, similar to the one in London.


	12. Chapter 12

_Thanks for the reviews! Oh, and all the death threats for Abigail...some of the theories were great. Sorry, again, for the delay. Enjoy!_

"She can't do that, can she? I mean, the law would have to favour me. Holmes, tell me there is no jurisdiction that would allow her custody of Josh." It was just after breakfast the following morning when I made that statement, after a sleepless night and a long morning spent first worrying, then reasoning and at last telling Holmes what happened with my sister the previous morning.

My friend was at the deal table, smoking and making meticulous notes on the variance in patterns of fingerprints. He was attempting a more useful classification, or so he told me and he and Josh had spent the week since our return from Meiringen working on this project. I couldn't tell if it functioned as a distraction of me for him, or if everything was supposed to tidy itself up again after all that had happened. Nothing seemed to me to be the same. I couldn't see how he could act so non-chalant.

"On the surface of it, the law does favour you," he said, lighting his fifth cigarette and doing it rather closely to some vessel of a reddish coloured liquid. "As you know our English common law heavily is based on Roman law, and that similar patrilineal society, all things, even children, are declared property of the husband. Or father, in your case."

"Well then, what can she possibly...hold on, what did you mean by 'on the surface of it'?" When he didn't answer, I moved from my position of wearing the hearth rug out more by pacing to flopping down next to him at the table. "Don't do this, Holmes," said I, grabbing his arm. "If there is something you know..."

He pulled away slowly, as if reluctant to do so. "I fear, my dear Watson, that the law would have little to do with it, were a custody case to come to court."

"How in God's name can you say that?"

At last throwing down his pen with a long sigh, he starred at me heavily and stone-faced. "Think on it. If your sister truly does want custody of John Sherlock, for reasons unknown, then surely she must know the law favours you. Unless she can prove mitigating circumstances. That is, give the court good reason that you are an unfit parent."

"But I am not unfit!" I expostulated.

"You know that. I know that. And surely you could call dozens of character witnesses who would attest to it as well. However..."

"What?! What?!"

"Oh, reason, man! It was you yourself that told me just three months ago I must take care in regards to my reputation! Surely you don't think a certain _spin _could be put on our relationship that would make you, in the eyes of a judge, unfit as a parent. Did you or did you not just say that it was only _after _you told your sister you lived alone with me that she precipitated this entire threat?"

I suddenly felt as if all the energy and vitality had been drained from my body. "But...but...how can she prove it? It's not true. How can she prove something that is not true!"

"It is nearly impossible to discern the motives of women, Watson. As you have no doubt heard me remark on more than one occasion. However, we can still conjecture about what she will do. She will certainly know that if she were to file a case against you, despite what circumstantial evidence, if any, she can manage, it will not be enough to terminate your rights as the boy's father. However, if played the right way, it could do something equally damaging."

"And that is?" I asked, almost afraid to do so.

"Ruin both your name and mine." He paused and glanced at me, a nearly nervous smile appearing for a fraction of a second. "And she will tell you this. She will want you to know that she has the power to do this. And so, she will ask you to voluntarily withdraw custody."

"But there is no proof! She saw me for only fifteen minutes or so yesterday. How do you propose to suggest she is suspicious of anything? How could she? She has no reason to suspect me, and...and she doesn't even know you!"

"Oh, I believe she probably knows me better that you think. After all, she has read all your accounts of my cases."

"Has she? How do you know this?"

"It is obvious," said he, returning to his notes. "How else could she have guessed you would be living here, at Baker Street now, instead of back in Kensington, where last you wrote her from."

"What are you..." I began, but he waved toward the end table where we usually kept mail (other than correspondence jack-knifed to the fireplace hearth). Under several discarded letters addressed to Holmes, cases that didn't interest him, no doubt, I saw the latest issue of _The Strand _magazine. _Sherlock Holmes returns, _it said in boldface. _Read Dr. Watson's thrilling account of 'The Empty House.'_

"It was actually just released to the public a week or so ago. But subscription holders were able to get advance copies the middle of last month. When I was going down to the Strand office, out of curiosity, I asked to see a list of subscription holders outside of London. There weren't a whole lot out of the city, and only three in Kent. One was Abigail Watson."

He was talking so rapidly, as if afraid of my reaction, that in truth I could not even follow. What had this... "I'm...I'm afraid I don't understand, Holmes. I haven't even written 'The Empty House' yet. How is it that I am standing here holding a copy of the finished product when as of this very moment the whole things exists in my mind only. If even that."

"Well, I should assume the answer obvious," replied my friend, barely looking up from his notes. "I wrote it for you."

"Did you? I mean, you did? Why on Earth would you do that?"

"It saved me from ennui." Finishing one last sentence with a flourish, he threw down the fountain pen and leaned indolently against the back of the chair. "It took only a day, and since I had nothing else to do while you were delirious with fever, I figured I was more qualified to write this particular case. Given your limited participation. Of course, what that says is not how it turned out, but it is essential to give the public what it wants. And they have to expect you and I side-by-side. Yes, Watson, it is a pretty little work of mostly fiction. But I fancy I got your style down satisfactorily."

I wasn't sure what to say. Except: "How did you know I intended to call it 'The Empty House'?"

"You told me. You told me a great many things while you were ill. You don't remember? Well, it's understandable. Most made little or no sense. Others, however..."

"Others, what?" I asked rather forcibly.

But he merely shrugged. "It's of no importance. I wrote the case, took it back with me to London, dropped it off at the Strand's office. Who were, by the way, thrilled that you had continued your accounts...I think more so than the fact that I was alive...but I digress. They rushed a publication on it, printing several hundred first January editions for subscription holders. Your sister read it, reasoned you would be back here with me in Baker Street, and that is why she sent your Christmas letter here."

After several seconds of allowed silence to sink that in, Holmes continued. "So, Watson, your sister knows of my opinions of women. She knows you fired your nurse; willingly moved back here. Although the dots are connectable, we would no doubt arrive at different conclusions."

"But..."

"Let me finish, please, Watson. You must be prepared for the worst. And the worst is this. If this came to trial, and your sister is the sort of person I fear, she will use the threat of exposure to combat the fact that there is little chance of prevail for her in the eyes of the law. And that is why I said that it would be equally damaging. Exposure for you. And for me."

With that knowledge, I sprang to my feet. This was not happening. This could simply _not _be happening. "So you are saying, Holmes, that if I go to trial my own sister will ruin my name...actually _our _names and reputations. And the only way to avoid that is to give her my son."

"There is no proof, yet, but I fear it."

And I could imagine it, too. The looks, the whispers, the nervous snickers. The disgusted sneers from men and the cruel head turns from women. I would have my son, but what sort of life would that be? And Holmes. I feared if he lost his clients, his deductions, than he would lose all will to live. I couldn't allow that to happen to him.

"I could be wrong, my friend." I heard his voice behind me, and it sounded far away. And regretful.

"I'm sorry, Watson. I should not have said anything. I broke my own rule of theorizing without data. I just did not wish for you to be blindsided by this. It is unfair."

He was directly behind me now.

"Watson?"

I didn't answer.

"Sit down."

I didn't answer.

"I'm not going to tell you again."

That time I turned to him. He looked very parental, and concerned. At least a little. And so I resumed my seat with Holmes next to me.

"This cannot be _happening_..." said I, making a fist.

But then Holmes grabbed my hand strongly within his own, and looking down, I realized that they both were shaking. I tried to pull away, but his fingers were exceedingly robust. As our eyes met, I felt as if I were going to say something, but what, I didn't know. Finally, with his free hand, he opened his silver cigarette case and pulled one out. Releasing me, he lit it and handed the vice to me.

I dropped his gaze. It hurt to look at him like that. "Thank you," I muttered, or some other such nicety and inhaled it deeply. But rather than calm me, I choked on it. It tasted odd. Strong. Nothing was the same anymore.

And still he was looking at me.

"Do stop," I whispered. But he wouldn't.

"Watson," said he at last. "If there is only one thing you know, know this: I will not allow it to happen.

I looked back up, vanished in a serious sea of grey.

"You will not lose Josh. Or anything else, for that matter."

The sun was so bright for a London winter. I thought that he had closed off the drapes. But I could see it, reflecting in the lines on his face and the patterns in his hair.

And then I knew I believed him.

Abigail arrived an hour or so later. Holmes had cleared away his fingerprinting project, but still sat with a pen and paper, writing something. I got the impression I was not to think that he was anticipating her arrival. But I knew he was. I knew it in the way he glanced at the watch I'd given him three times in fifteen minutes, the way he studied the doorway, the way he'd put on his best suit for an optimum impression. And I was left to fear what sort of meeting this would be. My sister was coming to meet my son, but it was her meeting with Holmes' that I expected to be far more interesting.

When the doorbell at last rang, and Mrs. Hudson called for me, I was not nervous. That emotion had been reserved for yesterday. Today, there was only anger. Anger, and perhaps a bit of fear. But mostly anger.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I said with a curt smile. "And if you would be so kind as to bring up a pot of tea?"

"Of course, doctor." She looked from my sister to myself and then back again. After fourteen years of living with Holmes, I suppose that she had developed some sort of capacity for observation. And the tension between the two of us was obvious.

"Won't you come up to the sitting room, Abigail, and have some tea? I'll fetch Josh and you and Holmes can get acquainted."

"You couldn't have gotten rid of him, I suppose?" She asked as we ascended the stairs.

"He _lives _here, Abigail...why would I want to 'get rid of him'?"

"I came to see my nephew...and you," she added as an afterthought. "I hardly appreciate being spied on by some busybody consulting detective."

"Now see here," said I, grabbing her arm just outside the door. "Sherlock Holmes and I are friends, partners...and I owe much to him. He has never excluded me, and I have no reason to do the same to he. Now, I don't know what exactly you are thinking, or what you may have interpreted from what I said yesterday, but if you are to be in this house, you will treat him with respect."

"My, John...you are defensive with this man, are you not?" Her tone of voice nearly made me want to do something I have never done before. Strike a woman. But I didn't. And I think she saw that, and smiled.

"The good book commands of us to not judge by appearances, but by right judgement1. And so that is what I will do."

I could think of nothing in response to that. And so I just nodded and motioned her in. Holmes was waiting; nearly posed by the loveseat-leaning against it in fact with one hand. The other he placed on his waist. He wore the queerest of grins on his face. Like a child in a candy shop. He seemed genuinely excited at my sister's arrival. It shocked me silent for several seconds, but then I shook my head out of it. "Uh...Abigail this is..."

But she interrupted me. "Mr. Holmes...is it not?"

"Of course, Miss Watson," said Holmes, still smiling. "But then, you already know that."

"Do I...you really are presumptuous, aren't you?"

"It is a capital mistake to confuse presumption with the truth, Miss Watson. Not only do I know that you have read every case your brother has been good enough to chronicle for me because you are on the subscription list, but the fact that you just called me a consulting detective proves it."

"Did I?" She asked innocently.

"Yes. And no one who is not familiar with Watson's writings would know to call me by that title."

"Ah...John, are you going to just stand there, or are you going to get my chair for me? Yes, thank you," she said as I pulled a chair at the table out for her. "Well, I will admit that there is a certain amount of excitement in my brother's writings, Mr. Holmes. Although I don't mind admitting that I worry about the influence you are having on him...and my nephew, no doubt."

"Abigail..." I began.

"I mean, I have read of serious matters...misogyny, for instance."

"Abigail..."

"Criminal activities."

"Abigail, please..."

"But I suppose that drugs will have that effect on a person..."

"Abigail!" I said, slamming my fist on the table. "That is quite enough!

"No, Watson," said my friend, looking not the least bit perturbed over my sister's harassment. "It's alright." And then he turned his head ever so slowly toward the woman. "I claim no imperviousness to sin. As I am sure you would not."

"Of course not," she interrupted. "That privilege belongs only to our Lord Jesus Christ. However"-

"_However_ there is no argument here, Miss Watson. I admit that having my private life out for public scrutiny brings forth a sort of resentment within me. It is not easy to live under a lens, with the public able to judge my every habit and movement. But should I be judged more harshly because my faults are on my sleeve, while yours are in the shadows?"

"You are trying to convince me that by judging you, I will in turn be judged?"

"It seems a valid argument."

"Then I just hope, Mr. Holmes," said my sister, with a wide-eyed glare. "That you are as prepared as I for when that judgment comes. For what comes with the abomination is that 'their blood is upon them.'2

Holmes' reaction surprised me. Rather than continue with this strange and expected argument-or debate, as it more seemed to me, he leaned back in his chair and clenched his jaw shut. Something my sister had just said seemed to resonate with him-and not for the better. But I didn't know what.

"You are going down a dangerous path," he said, quietly. "One I warn you will lead to perils you may find you cannot handle."

She smiled briefly. "And I could say the very same thing to you, sir."

"You both exhaust me," said I. "But I admit I expected it to be this way. I would appreciate it, however, if you could call some temporary truce while I get Josh."

"No need, my dear Watson," said Holmes, seemingly recovered. "It was merely a preliminary. Now that your sister and I know where we stand, I am sure that we can be civil. Isn't that right, madam?"

My sister cocked her head toward him, giving the ever slightest of nods. I was thoroughly unconvinced.

Every muscle in my neck felt stiff, but I left the room. It would be days later that I was privy to the short, but vital conversation that occurred while I fetched my son. I should have guessed what with what had already occurred, and what did occur than, what would soon after:

"I should warn you, Miss Watson, that you will not succeed in this," Holmes said the minute I was gone.

"And what is that, Mr. Holmes?"

He snorted. "I will not insult your obvious intelligence by discussing semantics."

"You consider me intelligent, then? A woman? I'm sure I'm honoured."

"Now, despite how your brother may classify me in his writings, it would be a grievous error for you to label me a misogynist. I'm not. I do not hate women. I merely consider them distrustful and self-serving." He paused, to consider her face. He was thankful it looked nothing like mine. "I believe you fall into that category immensely."

My sister's face hardened to stone. "It is my turn to warn you, Mr. Holmes. I know my brother is loyal to you. How you came to corrupt him I cannot say, but I, too, wish not to argue semantics. I prefer unadulterated, concrete facts. And they are these. You have been a dark spot on my brother's life for far too long. Unfortunately, he is an adult and I cannot take him away from you. However, the boy is another story."

"Do you think, Miss Watson, that I would be sitting here with you anticipating tea if I thought there was any chance of that happening?"

My sister was taken aback. "Your arrogance is astounding."

"As is your callousness."

"You confuse callousness with worry. And I am worried about my family, Mr. Holmes. John junior is the last of the family I have left. The only heir my father has left. He must have the best of everything...schooling, marriage, reputation. What do you think he will get from you? Disgusting habits and a sporadic lifestyle."

"It is curious," Holmes chuntered.3 "That you consider the boy the only family you have left when your only brother is at this moment trying to concede to your wishes. Against his own interests."

"I love my brother and want the best for him," said Abigail. "But there is little I can do. He has chosen his path."

"You know nothing of love," said Holmes in disgust. "And if my own blood is upon me, as you said, than so be it."

Abigail was shocked for several seconds, but then realized as to what he was truly saying. Or at least what she interpreted it to be. "You admit more than you intended."

The anger washed from my friend's face. She knew less than she thought. It was not arrogance either that forced this thought through him. It was the truth. "Miss Watson, I _never_ admit more than I intend." He flashed her the grin I have so often attempted to describe. It was the first time she would have seen it.

I have expected to find Josh camped out behind the sitting room door with his ear pressed to it. Playing detective, if you cared to call it playing, was the only game the boy was interested in playing of late. However, that day, he was doing nothing of the kind. Rather, I found him in his attic room, half asleep on the rocking horse he'd received for Christmas.

"Josh," said I, coming to him. "Wake up, son."

He opened his eyes. "Oh, hi, Papa."

"Are you alright? Are you ill?"

"No, I mean, yes and then no. I was just sleepy."

I smiled. "Well, I need you..."

"She's here, isn't she?"

"Who...Oh, yes. She is. But how did you know? I didn't tell you she was coming today. Wait, has Holmes been telling you..."

He shook his head adamantly. "No, I 'membered from the letter. January 15th. That's today." He pointed toward the hanging '95 calendar that was crookedly tacked to his wall. 14 wobbly black X's had been placed in the first fourteen boxes. I turned back to him. "Must I meet her?" He asked.

_He could read me like a book. _"I'm afraid so." I took his hand.

"Well, here he is, Abigail. John Sherlock, this is your Aunt Abigail. Abigail, my son, Josh."

This reaction, that is, the reaction of my son and my sister was one that I had visualized for hours now in the recesses of my mind. And I had thought I had it perfected. Josh, while still generally an introverted child, had come out a great deal since Mary's death and our move to Baker Street. I suppose this was do to trekking about with Holmes and being introduced to more people than he could remember. I pictured him studying his aunt with the same glowing blue-eyed expression and forwardness that he had adopted recently. She would be cold at first, but even Abigail would not be able to resist the child's charms and within minutes he would be dandled4 about on her knee in front of the fire. But perhaps that is just me wishful, peace-seeking nature of normalcy speaking. For in reality it was nothing of the kind.

Briefly, the two regarded each other and all was total silence. And then it was Abigail who complied first. "Hello, little John," said she, amidst a gentle smile and soft voice. She seemed nearly sad as she regarded him, and reached out for his head just inches away.

But between the two of them, it was Josh who was cold. And in fact, he whimpered and grabbed my knee trying to hide behind me. Truly, I was shocked. Never had I seen him respond like this before. "Josh, your aunt is speaking to you." I tried to nudge him forward.

"Hello," he said at last, but really it was hardly more than a whisper. However, when she stepped forward to touch him, he dodged her and ran to Holmes. My friend allowed the boy to climb into his lap, where he huddled like a wounded animal. The look Holmes sent my sister at first I took for victory, as if he was glorious over his dominance of the boy. But then I thought it may be something else in the hard lines of his eyes and the careful squint of his eyes. It was something I may have seen myself had I a mirror. Protection. It was fierce paternal protection.

"You needn't be frightened, my boy," said Holmes. But that was all he said. Nothing encouraging the child to embrace her.

"I mean you no harm, John junior," said my sister. "I am your only aunt. And I would like to see my only little nephew."

Josh glared and gripped the front of Holmes' overcoat tighter in one fist. "My name is Josh and not John junior. And I'm three years and three months old. Only babies are little."

"Well," said Abigail. "Your manners could certainly use improvement. In the first place, you Christian name is John, like your father. Straight out of the Bible. However, I will call you Josh if you prefer it. And three is still young, child, whether you wish it to be or not."

"But uncle says that age is just a number. And in my mind, I'm very much older than three. It has to be true because uncle says so. He knows most everything there is to know."

I grimaced at the boy's use of the word 'uncle', but happily it didn't appear to register with my sister.

"I wonder, Josh, have you ever heard the phrase 'actions speak louder than words'? He nodded, although I was not entirely sure he did. "Well then, perhaps over the next day you can prove it. It would be an ideal opportunity for us to get to know each other. What do you think, John?"

It took me a moment before I even realized it was I she was addressing. My eyes darted nervously and met Holmes'. I felt like grabbing the boy from him and telling her right then and there that never would she get her hands on him. She could do her worst, but be damned if she was going to poison his precious mind. But before I could answer, the sitting room swung slowly open and Mrs. Hudson came in with a large tea service. I smiled at the aroma of her still warm lemon cake. It was Josh's favourite.

"Well, John?"

"Uh...I don't know, Abigail. Where would you take him?"

"Today is Saturday. And if memory serves, that would mean tomorrow is Sunday. And so..."

"You wish to take him to church," said Holmes.

"Church?" Piped up Josh, grabbing for his cake. "Is that fun?"

"Hardly," said Holmes snidely.

Abigail paused in mid-sip of her cup. "Do you profess to tell me that the boy has not ever been to church?"

"Of course he has. He just doesn't remember." I stared at Josh heavily, hoping some how to mentally silence him. Thankfully, he was engaged enough in his tea and cake to not contradict me. Besides, it was true. He had been to church. Once, that is, for his baptismal. I wasn't sure why we hadn't been since. The last time I had been was for my wife's funeral. I think I had lost my faith since. But then I remembered. What was happening. The only thing I could do was to go along with her. Be agreeable. Abigail held all the cards.

"If you wish to," I told her. "Although going to church hardly seems like a favourable place to get to know each other." _As if that were her intention._

"Perhaps we could take a stroll in the park after."

"I would like that," said Josh, his mouth full of cake.

"Swallow before you talk," I reprimanded.

"In our day, children were supposed to be seen and not heard." She took a sip of tea. "I suppose you are trying a new form of upbringing?"

"That really is none of your business." I slammed my cup down on the saucer. Nearly too hard.

"Of course. My apologies." Just then the clock chimed the hour-two-and my sister set down her cup. "I hadn't realized the hour. Thank you, brother, for a pleasant visit, but I fear I need to get back to the hotel room. I fancy a few hours in study of the Bible will help to clear my mind."

I stumbled to my feet, clearing my throat. "Can I...um, would you like me to fetch you a cab?"

"Papa," said Josh, tugging on my arm. "I...I need the lav."

I sighed. Although the boy had been out of diapers5 for nearly a year, he still needed me to help him in the lavatory. I wished only that he could grow taller. "Alright, come along."

"I'll fetch your cab for you, Miss Watson." Holmes volunteered. He was probably eager for air. I couldn't blame him.

"I shall be around for the boy at nine o'clock tomorrow," said she, not getting up. "If you would be so kind as to have him ready to go."

It was with uneasiness in my heart that I let Josh go off with my sister the next morning. But what choice did I have? She had said nothing about seeking custody of him, but yet I hadn't talked to her alone since the brief conversation in the hall yesterday. But everything that I had discussed with Holmes was still perfectly fresh. I wasn't trusting her. I didn't know if I ever would. But I had to maintain the peace. It may have been the only solution that existed.

"You do know, Watson," said Holmes as we sat reading the papers and smoking late in the morning. "That you have been reading that same article for forty-five minutes exactly."

"I have?"

He looked over my shoulder blowing smoke in my face. "And Parliament meeting to approve the budget for an Indian canal hardly seems like something that would require much retrospect."

Sighing, I threw the thing down. "You know there is one thing that I don't understand."

"Really? Only one?"

I smiled. "My sister is not the motherly-type. I suppose it could be because she was the youngest and never had to help Mother. But even when we were children, she was a very lonely type. Besides my father, she never opened up to anyone. I cannot see why she all of a sudden has a desire to be a parent."

"It is a point that requires reflection."

"And what is your reflection?"

"I think that you are asking the wrong question. Why she wants the boy is not as important as when she will ask you for him."

I froze. "But I thought you said you were only conjecturing."

"Conjecture became fact."

"When?"

"Yesterday."

"I'm afraid I don't follow." I hated when he was like this. How he could be so calm was astonishing. Although I realised this was not the first time in 24 hours that thought had gone through my mind.

"The Bible," said Holmes. "Over on the sideboard. On a hunch, I checked it last night. The book of Leviticus may interest you."

Snatching the leather book from the ledge, I turned to the Old Testament. Leviticus. It was marked. With a dog-eared corner. Chapter 20. My eyes scanned over to verse 13. It was circled with red ink. And my heart nearly stopped.

_If a man lies with a male as with a woman, both of them shall have committed an abomination; they shall be put to death, their blood is upon them._

Their blood is upon them.

"Did you mark this, Holmes?" I asked. My voice was shaking.

He was standing next to me. I hadn't even heard him move. "I did not," he said.

"But I fear we both know who did."

1 John 7:24

2 Part of Leviticus 20:13-This is the one part of the Bible that deals directly with condemning homosexuality.

3 Muttered

4 bounced up and down

5 Just to clarify-nappies, the British word for diapers, did not become in use into the 20's. I don't know if diapers is the correct word or not, but it was all I could find. If anyone knows better, let me know.


	13. Chapter 13

_Mucho apologies for this taking so long. This chapter and the next were originally going to be one really long one, but in the interest of guilt (particularly from one person...he knows who he is) I divided this into two chapters. Rest assured the next will be up much faster as it is nearly finished. Thanks and enjoy! _

Josh arrived home just after dinnertime, running through the sitting room door and looking perfectly healthy and content. Why I expected him to be any different, I'm not certain, but I was at least a little relieved. After what she had done to the Bible, part of me feared that she would take the boy and run. Over the last few hours, I had sat in complete solitude gazing out of the window upon the civilization that is Baker Street. Of course, although I was watching it, I was far from _seeing _it. My only companions were half a dozen strong cigars. Normally, I am not a chap who condones poisoning the atmosphere of a room with more toxins than oxygen, (I leave that to Holmes), but this day I could be bothered with nothing else. Nothing but the heavy grey mist that permeated the window frames, and the numerous horrid thoughts that raced through my mind could concern me. Until the door was opened, that is, and Josh came dashing in.

"I'm home, Papa," he announced unnecessarily. "And Uncle was right. Church was very dull."

The noise of him trampling in awoken me to the real world once again. And seeing him here lightened the feeling of lead within my chest. "Oh, Josh...thank God. But where is your Aunt? Didn't she come in with you?"

He shook his head. "No. She said that I was to tell you she had to return home."

Holmes, who soon after showing me what Abigail had done to the Bible that morning, had muttered something about needing to check something, and had dashed out into the nearest cab without either his coat or hat. Now he came back rushing into the room with the wide-eyed look of a madman. But I did not worry. It was a common look for the man. It appeared every time he could sense the end of a case. But the instant his eyes fell on Josh, he seemed to regain complete composure. With a deep sigh that he tried unsuccessfully to hide, he shut the door, and smiled at the boy. "I trust you did everything I asked of you, lad?"

"Yes, Uncle. But she wouldn't tell me anything. She did look rather sad, though, one time. It was when we were in Regent's Park looking at the birds. She said that I was lucky. And when I looked up at her, she seemed very sad. But she wouldn't say anything else."

I looked from the boy to Holmes. "What's this all about?" I asked.

"Just a little experiment, Watson," said my friend. "Did she tell you anything else, John Sherlock?"

"She told me about where she lives. And God. And Heaven. I told her that was where my Mummy and sister were..."

"Anything else? Anything that seemed odd to you?"

Josh squinted his eyes, thinking as hard as he could. "No, sir...oh, wait. Once she called me Harry. It was when we were by the pond. She said that we should be off, Harry. And then I looked at her, and she shook her head and then said, it was time to go, Josh. She seemed as if nothing had happened and she had never said Harry. But I know she did."

Holmes had the look in his eyes again, narrowing in on this singular fact. "And you are certain that it was Harry she called you?"

Josh nodded, but I was utterly confused. "Wait, Holmes...what is going on here? What are you and my son concocting now? Whatever it is, I do wish you would let my in on it."

"You may call it," said he with the slightest of smiles. "A bit of precaution. I promise I will tell you if it becomes necessary."

"But why would Abigail call Josh by my brother's name? What is the significance of that?"

"I was hoping that you would know. Your brother's name was Harry?"

"Yes. Well, Henry, anyhow." I replied. "We called him Harry sometimes. But it does seem odd that she would call him by that name. I mean, to begin with, Josh looks nothing like Henry. And he was already ten years when Abigail was born. They weren't close in the least. What a queer comment to make!"

"A slip of the tongue," Holmes muttered under his breath. "It could mean everything, or nothing at all. Time may allow us to know the truth. But for now..." He picked up the boy with one long arm, "John Sherlock and I have some chemistry equations to practise."

"But Holmes!" I expostulated. "What of...well, what you told me the previous day. About...why Abigail came here?"

He turned back 'round with a look of the deepest meditation. "If I were you, friend Watson, I would not for a moment let it slip from my mind."

With Holmes' pessimism leaving me tense every hour of the day, I fully expected a telegram from my sister, or worse, a return visit. Part of me nearly wanted such a thing, if only to cease the unknowing. But another part of me, the part that fully trusted Holmes' intuitions, hoped that it was over before it had truly began.

I should have known better.

For two months, after a letter and two telegrams and still no answers, I tried to slip all that had happened into the back of the brain, keeping a positive mindset. I even assisted Holmes in the matter of the murder (that turned out not to be) of Jonas Oldeacre. Later, I included the case in my published works under the title of 'The Norwood Builder.'

But like a child who thinks that if he keeps his eyes open, he can avoid sleep, the inevitable would soon occur. Two months had passed and the bitter snap of winter was slowly progressing into the rebirth of spring. Spring in London is normally my favourite season. The epidemics of the cold slowly come to an end, and the populous comes out of hibernation. Children rush past shouting, ladies with prams can be seen once again, and fellows walk upright and will chat you up on the streets rather then rush past huddled under their mufflers. And perhaps my love of these scenes explain the irony that on the first day of this new season, I awoke to one of the darkest days of my life.

Holmes was in a queer mood. His success in the Norwood case had yet to wear off, and he seemed jubilant enough, yet I suspected in the back of his own mind, he was still deeply concerned over my sister. And it couldn't be simply for Josh's and my own sake. His own was at risk as well. And perhaps that explained why the cherrywood pipe was hanging from the angular jaw. It was the one he favoured when in a disputatious mood.

He glanced up at me as I walked into the sitting room, but gave not so much as a 'good morning.' Besides the pipe, it was transparently obvious that something was troubling him. He held the morning _Times _in one hand and puffed heavily glaring at something. His complexion was paler than normal.

"What is it?" asked I, pouring myself some strong coffee.

He didn't answer, so I poured some for he as well, and went over. "Holmes? Something wrong?"

He jumped up slightly as if surprised to see me standing next to his chair. Balling up the paper in one hand, he took the coffee from me and swiftly moved over to the table. "No, it is nothing."

I couldn't help but think that he was deliberately trying to hide something from me. "Now Holmes..." I began.

But I never got the chance to finish. "The mail arrived just moments before you came down, Watson, if you are interested." He waved toward the pile under the scattered remains of the paper.

I expressed my condemnation with one long glare, but he pretended not to notice. So I merely shook my head, and dug out the mail, all of which was addressed to Holmes. All, that is, except for the last letter, which bore my name.

The return address was Kent, and for a brief second I was certain that at last I was hearing from my sister. That is, until I read further and nearly lost my balance. "God...no."

"What is it?" Asked Holmes.

"It's from the Assizes. The _Kent _Assizes." I ripped the letter free and scanned it, but I was too shaken to read it closely. Finally, after my hand began to shake so violently I could no longer make out individual words, Holmes snatched it from me and read it himself, leaning against the mantel and still puffing that damned pipe.

"Well, what do you make of it?" I asked after a moment or two of silence.

"It seems," said Holmes, "that this letter was sent to compel you to attend trial on the 30th of this month. One Abigail A. Watson is challenging your right of custody to a minor, John Sherlock Watson. It goes on that you have the right to counsel, and should you refuse to attend...and et cetra. Hmm...it is curious, doctor. Your sister chose to file this complaint with the Kentish Assizes rather than the London."

"What...why is that curious?"

"Well, despite the maxim, justice is hardly blind. And the history of the law shows us that, ostensibly, the smaller court systems tend to be more conservative, which would not favour well for you. As well as the fact that you are known in London, and a court here may see your celebrity as an advantage. There is also"-

"I don't care!" I yelled. "I don't care if she filed this case in Kent, London or Timbuktu! Damn it, Holmes, how can you stand there and reason my sister's insane actions? She is trying to _take_ my child from me! She is either going to take Josh or ruin or names!"

"Calm yourself, Watson. It's far too early in the morning to raise your blood pressure so high."

But I was nearly in a panic. How had this happened? How was it that I had let this happened? "I have to run," I began. "I could take Josh and leave the country. Perhaps if I went to Scotland...or even back to India..."

"Don't be a fool," Holmes shot back. "Don't you realise how guilty you would appear to be if you fled?"

"What options have I?!" I felt a throb in my left hand and saw that I had been punching it hard with my right.

"One far more logical than taking to the lam. Now, do you trust me, doctor?"

"Of course." I didn't even hesitate.

"Than you must do exactly as I say. And if you do, I promise that all of this will end positively."

I took a deep breath. "Alright, my friend. Tell me what to do."

He patted me on the shoulder. "Good man. Now, to begin with, go to that desk and take a telegram form."

"A telegram form?" That was the last thing I expected him to order me to do.

"Yes. Address it to your sister in Kent. And then take this note. 'Received word of custody case-stop-Must meet to discuss it-stop-Come to London this day-stop-Take the 1:45 train and go to lobby of Albert Hotel-stop-Will receive you there-stop.'"

I wrote exactly as he dictated, my pen shaking as I did. "How do you know that she will come?"

"Include this in a post script. 'Abigail-stop-If you choose not to indulge me-stop-Holmes and I will flee with him and you will never see us again-stop."

"Will we really do that?"

He hesitated a moment. "Of course not. But she will not know that."

I got the feeling that taking Josh and running with me might be exactly what he _would_ like, but I didn't say so. "But what am I to tell her when we meet at the Albert?"

"Watson, Watson...we are not going to _be _at the Albert."

"We're not?"

"Of course not! It is a ruse, doctor, to lure her away from Kent. To give us time."

"Time to what?"

He stared at me as if it were obvious. "Time to stop her of course."

"But how?"

"No, I shall explain in the course of time. For now, send out that telegram immediately.

The next few hours were in such rapid succession that they passed with a blur. All that I remember for certain was that Holmes and I found ourselves on a mostly empty 2 o'clock train to Canterbury, Kent, with the Lord only knows what ahead.

"Alright, Holmes," I said when I could stand the unknowing no longer. "Perhaps now would be a worthwhile time to tell me what I am doing here. Why am I headed back to my childhood home, a place I swore I never would go again?"

"The place holds unpleasant memories for you?" Asked Holmes.

"Well...I suppose any childhood holds at least _some_ unpleasant memories"-

"Some more than their fair share."

I blinked several times, taking that enigmatic comment in. "Yes...I suppose."

Holmes cleared his throat and leaned toward me, seemingly eager to change the subject. "The only way we are going to convince your sister to cease and desist is to fight fire with fire. The only problem is that she holds the only torch. And so, we must find our own flame. And hope that it is bigger and brighter than hers. Something I suspect is not out of reach."

I should say that there were times I bloody well hated when he spoke like the Sphinx. All in riddles. But I think that I made at least some sense of it. "You mean-at least I think-that we are to find something out about my sister that can be used against her?"

"Precisely."

"Oh, but Holmes! Be rational! What could possibly exist against Abigail that we could use as blackmail? My sister has never done anything. Not _anything_. What could you possibly hope to find?"

"Watson, I thought that you said you trusted me."

"I do, but"-

"Than you must do so, my dear doctor. You must believe that I will get you out of this."

Our eyes met for quite a long moment. "Will you?" I asked.

He nodded. "Of course. Upon my word. As long as you trust me and have faith."

Faith. I had lost my faith. But not in this man. "'I am with you, as I have ever been1'" I told him.

He smiled at me. "You are worthy, Bertuccio."

And then we turned to the passing scenery; silence falling on us as we contemplated what would be ahead this day.

I hadn't been home in nearly thirteen years, since the death of my brother, yet somehow everything looked the same. The station in Canterbury was within walking distance to the house, and because it was unusually warm for March, we took to our heels and headed for home...the house. I pointed out the paper mill where both my father and uncle had come to work nearly every day, as well as the old schoolhouse and the houses of old friends.

It was like stepping back in time to my childhood. I led Holmes along a path through the woods that surrounded our property. I was telling my friend about the weather. "We have the distinct pleasure of being the hottest place in England in summer, and the coldest in winter. We are also generally regarded as the windiest, and floods in autumn are not uncommon..." I was rambling and I knew it, but the trees were yelling at me. Telling the stories of my past.

"_You're it, Johnny!"_

"_I am not!"_

"_I can run faster than you, Georgie!"_

"_Harry, will you bang our start for us?"_

"_One for the money, two for the show, three to get ready and away you go..."_

We stepped from the chilly shadows on the western edge of the property into the sunlight. There it was, just as it always had been. My father's house was very Kentish in style, with its half-timbering, infilling with brown brick, wide eaves and the steeply-pitched red tiled roof. It was on the downside of a slope, mere paces from the lake that lapped against the banks, practically feet from backdoor. Amelia Lake, as we called it, after my father's mother. His brother and sister-in-law, as well as my cousins, had lived a quarter of a mile, just over the hill. The water was silver and aqua in the chill of winter, but it wasn't the nip in the air that caused the shudder through me. I still feared this lake.

"Tell me about it," said Holmes.

I quickly turned. "What?"

"Your childhood. Yours and your sisters." He tapped his forehead. "I must be able to see you both as children; see the events that shaped the adults you became."

I turned back to the lake. And I was thirteen again. I heard her scream.

"_Johnny! Johnny, help me!"_

"_Abby!"_

_I ran toward her, whipping my head around to my cousin George. "Get your Pap, Georgie!" He was off. The fastest runner in the family. Even if he was slow in the head._

_Harry was gone. Papa was sick. I was the man of the family. "I'm coming, Abby!"_

_The water was cold. It was so cold. What was she doing in water so cold? My feet were heavy. I should have taken my boots off. I was up to my knees, my waist, my chest. I couldn't breath. But I had to. "I'm...I'm coming, Abby..."_

_My arms were heavy. Couldn't get them around. I was the best swimmer in the family. Harry couldn't even float and Abby..._

"_I'm comin'..."_

"_Johnny...I'm...hurry..."_

_The water was dripping in my eyes from my hair. It burned. But she was right in front of me. She was a terrible swimmer. And never listened. I reached out, just missing her arm. I went under. It was dark. My lungs were turning to ice. Gasping, I reached again. I felt her arm slap at me as she bobbed around. Again, I went under. My vision was starting to go red and grey and black..._

_Abby..._

_My arm shot out. It hit something hard. My hand closed around it. It was her. It was her wrist. I had her._

_Swim..._

_Swim..._

_My boots kicked at gravel._

_And then someone had me._

"_Oh, Johnny...my darling, are you alright? George...is he alright?"_

"_He'll be fine, Anne," said my Uncle. "They'll both be fine."_

_I had a blanket around me and my hair was dripping. Mam's arm was around me and she was kissing my head. "Johnny, you're a hero, you are."_

_She turned to Abby. She was also wrapped up, shivering on the bed. "How could you do something so foolish, girl? How could you? If your brother hadn't been there, you would be dead!"_

"'If your brother hadn't been there,'" Holmes repeated. "You saved your sister's life at nearly the cost of your own."

"Mother was always the hardest on my sister. And Abigail was furious with her. She wouldn't admit it, but I knew that she was. I was a hero in Mam...my mother's eyes. And once again, Abby couldn't please her. She never could, I fear."

Holmes nodded slowly, and for a moment, we both stared at the wind moving the lake in jagged ripples. The day had only started. I felt my friend's hand on my shoulder. "Come," said he.

"To where? Inside?"

"Not yet. The other side of the house." He grabbed his stick from the ground, and took off at a fast pace.

I didn't want to go there. I knew what was there. But Holmes was already off at a rapid pace around the right side of the house. Tucking my hands into overcoat, I leaned into the wind and followed him. I could smell the pine and the grass in the breeze. Did nothing change here?

Directly behind and to the right of the house was the family graveyard. Unlike some families, ours did not extend back more than two generations because grandfather had come to England with his wife and four children when Pap was still in diapers. He and my uncle George had brought adjoining land in Kent, married Scottish sisters, and proceeded to have families and drink themselves to early graves. My brother Henry had not been lucky enough to escape the legacy. But I was spared.

"And these are all familial graves, Watson?" Asked Holmes when I had caught up to him, slowly walking from one to the other.

"Yes. My father and mother are there," said I, pointing. The markers were both a little weed-covered, which surprised me because Abigail was usually anal about cleanliness. "Next to father are my Uncle George, he died just two years after his elder brother, and his wife, my mother's sister, Jane. Next to Jane is my cousin Bennie-" I stopped to stare at the oldest gravestone in the lot. Bennie had died at age eight of German measles. He and I were close companions, and he was also the cousin to which I earlier spoke of that compelled me to the medical profession. _Benjamin George Watson-our little angel..._

"And...then, that's Harry...my brother, Henry's grave." I turned from it. His hurt nearly more than any other. He had been my father more so than the one I was born to. But he was dead. They were all dead. Even Mary, back in the cold ground of St. Paul's in London. And Josh could be next. Then truly I would be alone...

"I'm sorry, Watson."

"For what, Holmes?"

He quickly touched my arm. "This cannot be easy for you." And then, before I could respond, he had moved away toward the edge of the property. Memorizing every detail of this holy ground, he stopped suddenly, and with one hand motioned me over.

"And whose grave is this?" He asked, pointing.

I looked down. At first, I hadn't the slightest clue what he was talking about. There was no headstone, so I assumed no grave. But as I looked beyond that, as Holmes is always telling me that I must, I saw that the ground was raised slightly. Not only that, but the ground was bare here, covered in a layer of dried brown soil. No weeds. No roots, nor plant growth of any kind. "I have never seen this before," I told my friend. "But surely, it must be very old. And it couldn't be a human grave. There is no headstone. An animal, perhaps?"

"I think not, doctor," said Holmes, squatting to the ground and brushing his gloved hands over the dirt mound. "If an animal were buried here, I doubt that such care would be taken to maintain the sight." He paused, glancing at the family plot with an out-stretched arm. "Hmm..." He mused. "It is at least 10 metres from this grave to your family plot. It is almost as if someone purposely wanted one to not confuse this grave with the others."

"But why on Earth..."

"It is curious." He jumped to his feet, and brushed the dirt from his clothing in his usual fastidious manner.

"What is? And what do you possibly hope to learn out here? Shouldn't we be inside?" The temperature was starting to drop as the evening grew nearer, and I could feel a stiff chill rip through my overcoat.

"You're absolutely right," said Holmes. "Let us continue our search inside."

"Continue it?" I hadn't realised that it had even begun. But once again, Holmes had taken off. "What's your hurry?" I asked when I had caught up to him. "With the way your rushing about one would think you were taking the guided tour."

"There is no time to lose, Watson."

We walked through the doorway, into the dimly lit kitchen. Abby had still not had gas laid on in the house, despite my offering to have it done years ago. The drapes blocked out the sun, and immediately I noticed how long and dark the shadows Holmes and I cast on the wooden floor were.

Abigail had everything neat as a pin. And because she was so frugal, the majority of the house was just as I remembered it as a child. Mam's old churn still sat in the corner. If you looked close, you could see how much it was used; the dash had finger marks worn into it. The pump from the well still had the same faded rust stain, and the woven bright yellow and red rug that covered the hall seemed permanently marked with the footprints of my entire family. I could hear the house speaking to me through the silence. And indeed it did:

_We ran in from town. It was only a mile to the school house and we always ran: my cousins George, Basil and I. _

_Mam was baking bread that day. There is absolutely no smell as divine as the smell of bread rising. The aroma filled my nostrils with heat, sweetness and fresh leavened flour. My mouth was immediately filled with saliva._

"_Take off those muddy shoes, you louts!" Mam ordered._

_But she was smiling at me as a mother often does. She was churning butter. Her skin was the soft colour of butter, before the carrot was put in to yellow it. Alabaster white. Even hours spent out in the sun couldn't darken her. _

"_Hungry, boys?"_

"_Yes ma'am." We echoed._

_We took thick slices of the still warm bread dripping in the freshest of butter. It was like velvet for the mouth. _

"_Mam, may we go fishing before dinner?" I asked._

_That smile again. "Of course."_

_Abigail came running in. I was sorrowful that she had no cousin her own age to befriend, but I was a boy-just twelve or thirteen. And no boy that age wants a thing to do with his sister. "You can't come, Abby." I had said before she had even opened up._

"_Mother! Why can't I?"_

"_Leave the boys be, girl. You'll only get dirty. And besides the fact, you have your mending to finish."_

_Georgie and I went out, but Basil remained. He was the eldest of our lot-nearly sixteen and almost finished with the school in Canterbury. "Don't go, Basil," Abby said. He was due to go off to secondary school in Edinburgh. Abigail had cried all night. _

"_Don't worry, girl," my cousin said. "I shall stay here and keep you company."_

_And so Georgie and I went off to grab our poles without him._

I hadn't even realized that I was doing more than just remembering this moment in my life. I was speaking it aloud.

"I'm apologise, Holmes," said I when I saw him studying me intimately. "This place conjures up memories I thought were long forgotten."

"No, no," he replied. "Continue. The human brain, Watson, is like the most perfect storage unit. You file away data without knowing why, and summon it again at times that we may not at first understand, but believe me when I say that there is reason for it. There is always reason for it. And so I implore you to continue. With anything you childhood home may recall for you."

I nodded, but I was not sure how eager I was to start chattering away about my past life. It was not as if I had any real complaints, and in fact compared to many people, I had had a happy early life. But still to stand and chat Holmes up with any of a hundred stories as if we were back home in the sitting room would have been a dreadful untruth and I would not pretend that everything was fine. This was not a pleasant day trip. And I couldn't treat it as such.

I heard as the mantel clock in our own sitting room chimed the hour. I had forgotten about that clock. My father had bought it for my mother on the first anniversary of their wedding. It was probably the favourite thing in the house she owned. Every night she would wind it and every Sunday she would polish it until I could see my reflection in the glass with no streaks.

Next to the clock were some of the family pictures. Abigail had one that I myself owned, the only complete family portrait, taken when I was ten years of age. Next to this was one of my mother and father; the only one of the two of them together, taking shortly after their wedding day. And on the opposite side stood my Aunt and Uncle Watson, and two of their three surviving children. George, who suffered from some unknown mental deficiency, was fourteen and smiled widely with a crooked expression. Basil was about sixteen, wearing his school uniform and staring into the camera with hard, dark eyes.

"Your cousins?" Holmes asked.

I nodded. "Although because we were so much closer in age than Henry and I, they seemed more like brothers."

"What has become of them?"

"Before we lost touch, my sister wrote to tell me that George was placed in an institution just a few years after this photo was taken. My aunt died soon after. I believe he is still there. It is somewhere near Edinburgh. As for Basil, he graduated University, but I never did learn for certain what became of him. We lost touch, although I am sure that Abigail probably knows. She was always the one who kept in touch." I saw my reflection in the glass of the frame, and was nearly astonished to see a man of nearly forty, instead of a boy of fourteen staring back. "She was less zealous with her own brother."

At Holmes insistence, we headed for the upstairs. Running my hand over the banister, I felt the oak that had worn as smooth as satin over the years. There were 17 steps I had once learned from my friend, leading from the hall to the sitting room in Baker Street. I had spent my entire youth ascending and descending this staircase, yet I never observed how many there were.

I walked up, remembering this stairway to be much wider and taller. I was seeing it as a boy, and not a man. There were 14 steps and the sixth still creaked loudly under my weight.

There were four bedrooms. My parents' was immediately right to the stairs, a guest room frequented by either my cousins on one of their many nights over, or occasionally my Uncle George, after my Aunt would regularly throw him out for his frequent love of Scotch-whiskey. Diagonal to this room was Abigails; the room she slept in to this day. Across was my old room, mine and Harry's, until he left to discover all the pubs and taverns our great country had to offer. It was to this room I found myself immediately drawn.

Opening the door, I was flooded with stale air and musk, as one would expect from a room closed off for so long a duration. Sunlight poured in from the window, which overlooked the fell2 behind the property. I stepped inside.

_My head was buried in the cotton of Mam's apron, and I smelled cinnamon, flour and rose-water. My face was sticky with tears, although I didn't actually remember crying. The water had just poured without reason. _

"_Stop now, John," Pap was telling me. He stood tall as a statue in my doorway, covered in shadow. "Enough crying now."_

"_You don't tell him that, Henry Watson. Let him have his tears."_

_I looked up and outside. Although they lived half a mile from us, I could nearly hear my Aunt Jane wailing over the body of her youngest son. My dear Bennie was dead._

"You were close?"

Holmes appearing behind me nearly made me jump out of my skin. Lord, but I don't know how much more I could take in this house. There was just too much I wanted not to remember. "We were." I told him. "We were born weeks apart only. Our mothers called us 'the twins.' We were practically inseparable for seven years. And then he contracted German Measles. There was an outbreak in Canterbury that year. Eight people died, including five children at the school."

"You must have taken it very hard."

"As hard as a seven-year old can contemplate death, I suppose. But it was Bennie's death that compelled me to medicine. And I never wavered from that path."

"Losing a sibling..." he continued, but then stopped, spun on his heels, and walked out of the room.

I was instantly filled with curiosity. His only brother was still alive and well, so what could he know about losing a sibling? But the look upon his face was one that I knew I couldn't intrude upon. And so I said nothing.

"This is your sister's room, is it not?" He asked, barging in.

"Er...yes." In truth, although I knew that we were here on a worthy mission, and part of that would have to include investigating her room, I was still uncomfortable about the whole thing. Although Holmes acted almost as if it he were enjoying invading upon her privacy. His anger at what she was attempting to do possibly outweighed even my own, and there was nothing sacred to him when he came to her. I realised that. And had it not been for his perspicacity and perseverance, I think that this would not have ended the way it did.

My sister's room, unlike mine, had changed little since childhood. Her bedstead remained carved out of the pine that had once covered this area, despite her frequent wishes as a girl for a 'pretty' brass one. It still was covered in the pink and white quilt Mother and Aunt made for her when the pregnancy was known. After a succession of five boys between the sisters, they were both certain this child would at last be a daughter.

The lace curtains had hung in the window overlooking Lake Amelia since the day of her birth. Flowers, the daisies and violets that grew wild, were carefully arranged in a porcelain vase were the only adornment to the room, other than the crucifix that hung over the bed and the picture of the Virgin Mary holding the Baby Jesus. Her Bible and an oil lamp sat on a small night stand. Opposite it was a wardrobe and dresser, both without adornment. The floors were bare; the walls as well, with the exception of her religious artefacts.

"My, what a pious tomb this is," remarked Holmes, mirroring my own thoughts. "Almost completely devoid of personality."

But had it always been this empty? No, not before life had turned my only sister into a bitter old maid, her only comfort her religion. I could still recall her as a darling thing in ribbons and taffeta, her brown hair in ringlets and a gapped grin. Sprawled out on her floor, I would occasionally have to keep an eye on her for Mam. And I would be forced to play with her toys: a Noah's Ark, hand-made by our father for his favourite child. There was also a wax doll and a china tea set, both ordered from stores in London. We were not on such hard lines3 as many in those times, but no expense was spared for Henry Watson's little angel. But she was such a sweet child that at the time I could see why.

'_Johnny, Johnny, come and sit. Have some tea with Dolly and me'. And then she would giggle at her little rhyme, and after a useless protest, her chubby four year old hand would drag me into her room and I would be forced to sit and pretend to take tea instead of tramping through the woods with my cousins and hunt and fish._

'_Isn't this tea divine?'_

'_Of course, Abby.'_

'_Thank you for coming and taking tea with us, Johnny.' And she would smile at me, her beloved brother._

What had happened to us?

"Something on your mind, Watson? You are more distrait4 than ever I have seen." Said Holmes. He was inspecting the room as if it held mysterious secrets.

"Yes, I...no, nothing is on my mind. It is just...well, I wonder how it came to this. Abby...we were once close. Not exceptionally close, but until Father died, she seemed a normal happy child. And then...I don't know, my friend. Never then would I have imagined that it would have come to this."

"Losing a parent can have that effect on a child," he replied as he pulled out the nightstand door. It contained only three handkerchiefs, a few candles and matches, and her rosary beads.

That statement reminded me acutely of just a moment ago; of what he had said of losing siblings. There was obviously a story here. "You sound as if you speak from personal experience, Holmes." I could not help but remark.

"It is based on observation, and nothing more." He said plainly and would not elaborate.

He had moved from the nightstand to her dresser. Most of the drawers contained clothing, but the final one seemed to have more. A few pieces of jewellery that the man examined closely, but to me did not appear to be anything at all. He refilled around in the drawer until he pulled out something that firstly I mistook for a mere slip of paper. But as I looked closer I saw that it was a photograph.

"Who is that?" I asked Holmes.

But as quickly as he had pulled it out, he shoved it in his overcoat pocket, preventing me from a closer look. "Holmes..." I began, but I sensed immediately that his entire personality had shifted. He was no longer Holmes the concerned friend, who wished only to spare my family this Hell; he was Holmes the machine, feeling the solution to his quandary near. I doubt he even heard me.

Dashing from the room, he ran first to my parents room, opening the door, but then slamming it nearly as quickly. He then did the same in the guest room, slamming that door as well after only a second or two. "This house has no attic," he mused, seemingly to no one but himself. "So perhaps a cellar?"

"We have an old fruit cellar," I told him. "It is used mostly for storage, but"-

"Come!" he called, heading down the stairs.

With a long sigh, I hurried after him. Even after nearly a decade and a half, I was never used to being miles behind his incredible mind.

The old fruit cellar was dark and dank; it had quite an unforgettable smell of earth and mold. In our younger days, we loved to hide down here and scare each other. It was a frequent place to sit around and tell the ghost stories that we learned from our fathers. I think that the place still held some dread for me, remembering all the sleepless nights I spent after listening to my cousin Basil's eerie tales of witches and bog creatures. Shivering, I asked Holmes what exactly we were doing down here.

"Putting the final pieces of this twisted little puzzle together," he said, poking around through the boxes, canisters and trunks that were stored.

"The _final _pieces? What the deuce were the first pieces?"

"Hmm..." was his only reply. "You know, Watson, I think I have to be rather grateful that your sister was born female. With her mindset and tenacity, she could have very well become another Professor Moriarty."

"Holmes!"

He glanced at me. "Oh, I mean that in the best way possible, my dear Watson. For although his mind was inclined toward evil, it was still an incredible mind no matter how you look at it. Your sister, too, has a mind that is equally envious. But despite her devout exterior, within she is as flawed as the rest of us."

"What do you know?"

"I know..." he began, but then froze. "She has returned. Quickly, Watson, come with me!"

We dashed from the cellar back to the sitting room, where somehow my friend had heard the carriage pull up with my sister in the passenger seat. "There is no time," Holmes said. "If you want this all to come out in your favour, than you must do exactly as I say, my friend."

"What do you wish of me?"

"You must stay here behind that wall, and not let your presence known. It is essential that I confront her myself."

"What exactly are you confronting her with?"

He glanced nearly nervously at the window. "There is no time to argue, Watson! You must give me your word!"

"Alright, alright, you have it."

"No matter what she or I may say?"

I could fairly imagine what she could say. I swallowed hard, remembering the Bible back home but I nodded. "My dear Holmes, when I said that I trusted you unconditionally, I meant just that. Upon my word, I will remain hidden until you give the word."

He took my arm briefly. "Then you and your son will be safe."

As I jumped behind the inglenook5 where I knew I would not be able to be seen, I wondered as to his choice of words. Why was it that Josh and myself would be safe? Wouldn't he be as well?

1 Marino Faliero to Bertuccio, in the Doge of Venice-Lord Byron

2 high barren fields

3 tough luck

4 distracted from present concerns

5 corner near the fireplace


	14. Chapter 14

_Well, I didn't make you wait that long this time. To the Anime Princess-since you don't have an e-mail address listed under your bios, I'll answer your questions here. No, I'm not Canadian, although I really like the country. I know a lot of people that are from there. And also, no I am not what you would call a Christian. I don't especially care for organized religion. And to everyone, enjoy as always..._

A few seconds of agonising silence later, the door opened slowly. She sensed that something was not right immediately, perhaps before she saw the great detective sitting at her kitchen table. They were face-to-face.

"What are you doing here?" Said my sister, as she stepped into the kitchen. "You are intruding in my house. On private property. Surely, in all of your _immense_ knowledge of English law, you must know that this is quite illegal."

"Actually, Miss Watson, this house and the surrounding property are listed in the name of both you _and_ your brother. And I am here with his permission. However, if you would still like to call the Kent constabulary"-

"What do you want, Mr. Holmes?" Abigail interrupted, shutting the door rather forcibly. I felt the wall shake slightly from my hiding place.

"To speak with you."

"What about?"

I could nearly see the smirk. "You have a great passion for semantics, madam. But if you wish to play it this way, I shall concur. Call it gentlemanly courtesy. There arrived-this morning no less-a letter from the Kent Assizes that compelled your brother to a hearing next week on the matter of the custody of his son. It was not a far-reaching stretch of the imagination to suppose that the hand behind it was yours."

"So what if it was? What do you propose to do about it?" There was a long pause, in which I held my breath, listening to her shoes clip-clop across the wood. "I suppose you have brought my brother's pistol? I suppose now this will end the same as one of his overtly dramatic narratives...I will confess to some heinous crime and laugh maniacally while the spurned lover rushes in and screams, vile beast!, shooting me into oblivion? Of course, this time, the spurned lover is yourself..."

I gripped the wall harder. My teeth clenched shut. But I kept my promise, and didn't reveal myself.

"You do have a great propensity for imagination, Miss Watson. I see now that it must be in your blood. But I must remind you that your suppositions are worth little in the real world. You can suppose what you will about my relationship with your brother. However, I must hasten to remind you that you have no proof."

"I find it immensely curious that you do not even attempt to deny it. You merely point out that there is no proof."

"I will not give you the satisfaction of either admitting or denying anything."

_For God's sake, Holmes! Deny it! Deny it!_

Abigail was staring. And hard at that. I was sure of it. "Your silence speaks well enough. It is quite disgusting. And not just the act itself. How you would take advantage of my brother. You must have seduced him. Is that what you did? And now you would risk his name, and that of his family...you would send John to prison to satisfy your own sick needs..."

"That is quite enough!" The anger is his voice was so apparent that it could have shattered the stars. "My love of John may be a crime in the eyes of the law, in your own even! But I will see you burn in Hell before I will allow you to ruin both his life and Josh's! Even if I have to sacrifice my own!"

Abigail laughed. "Well, how ironic, Mr. Holmes! Because it could very well come to that. If ever the authorities in London were to find out, I should think that even a _celebrity _such as yourself would not be spared a healthy spell in prison. In which afterward, your life would be ruined. After all, no one wants a bugger for a _consulting detective_."

I felt my eyes pop wide open at the use of that word. Something in my stomach clenched shut. No. No.

Holmes cleared his throat. "For a woman, you have quite the vile vocabulary."

"I speak the truth."

"You _condemn _me with what you _think_ is the truth For if that is indeed what it is, then 'why does truth engender hatred'1?."

"Perhaps because the truth is not always an easy thing. Nor is it with God's laws. If it were, than there would be no need for Our Lord's sacrifice. But because man is easily distracted from the path, there must be directive, sacrifice and repentance."

"Repentance? Should I repent for something I have no control over? I asked not for it, and do you think I would risk all there is in life if I could snuff it out as easily as a candle? You would not blame a dying man for the disease that is killing him, so why should you blame a long-suffering for what he cannot control?"

"'Now if I do what I do not want to do, it is no longer I who do it but it is sin living in me that does it'2. Only the possessed have no control, Mr. Holmes. You use that as an excuse. You chose you actions as do all that flaunt the Law. And like the cities of sin, you will be destroyed as your _kin _were. In fire and brimstone."

"Would that be due to my inhospitality to God's messengers3?" He was growing angry now, I could hear it in the growing deepness of his voice. And in the fact that I had no idea what he was speaking of.

"You speak nonsense..."

"'He who does not love does not know God; for God is love.' First book of John, Chapter 4, Verse 8!"

"That does not include unnatural love..."

"'Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you!' Book of Matthew, Chapter 5, Verse 44!'"

Abigail stopped. "You are more well-versed than I would have thought. You would think that you would realize what you do to my brother will insure you both will go to"-

"This very life I see in every day of my life _is _Hell, Miss Watson! The death and the disease! The persecution and the judging! Murder, rape, theft...how could Hell be any worse than the East End of London on a bitter day? I have seen things that you, rapt in the attention of things past thousands of years ago could only imagine! But I will tell you this. If I am to go to a place when I die that is very much like the modern world, than I shall because I have already survived it. But your brother has committed no sin. You should know this. He is the best of men. Better than you could ever hope to be, and certainly better than I, with the thoughts that ravish me!"

"Ravish is quite the word for it, as far as you are concerned with my brother, I am sure!"

I saw in my mind's eye as Holmes turned toward her and his entire face took on a colour of red that I had never seen. He was not a man to let emotion overcome him. Not even close. But I think that after what she had insinuated there, he would have liked to have her neck in his hands. It was nearly an entire moment before the cool rational took over once again.

Oh, God how it took but every fibre I possessed to not make myself known. But for some reason, some unknown strength, some loyalty that outweighed my anger, I managed to not rush out. Rather, I clutched my chest and slowly fell to the ground. It was all out now, was it not? She knew all for certain. His love, his sin...

I was the best of men?

He would see her burn in Hell before he allowed her to ruin my life?

Even if he had to sacrifice his own?

_How could she use these words? My own sister?_

Bugger? Ravish? Sodemy?

As I felt the silent scream in the back of my throat, I am still sorrowful to admit that there was only one thing that I thought of in that second. My pistol. But who could I shoot? Holmes? Abigail? Myself?

It was an empty realisation, one I never, ever could fulfil, but the mere notion that I had even considered it for a fraction of a second filled me with intense fear.

There was a silence in the kitchen. A horrid, long, gut-wrenching silence, and I nearly was sick over it. But was it because she knew?

Or was it because of what had been said?

"I know it all now, Mr. Holmes," said my sister in a quiet voice. "You have admitted it all. You cannot deny it."

"I will deny nothing."

"Then may I suggest that in order to save whatever face you have left, you convince my brother to voluntarily withdraw custody of the boy?"

"Or you will fill the gossipy ears of every lady and gentleman in all of England with the unfounded rumours that your brother and I share a bed?"

Why did he have to phrase it that way? 

"You force me to."

"Indeed."

And then it was as if both had been struck mute. For the longest time, neither spoke. Until finally, when I thought that my very breathing was loud enough that it would reveal me, Holmes spoke again:

"I fear, Miss Watson, that it will not come to that," said he. His voice had retained some order of normalcy again, and I heard as he moved swiftly to sit at the table. "It will not come to that because you will not follow up on your case. In fact, you will drop the entire matter, retire to your home here, and never interfere in your brother or nephew's lives again."

I think what Holmes had just said must have shocked even Abigail because it took several moments for her to recover enough to respond to this extraordinary speech. But when she did, she laughed. Laughed at his assurance. And conceit. "Really, Mr. Holmes. I would nearly be surprised at that, but after reading of you for fourteen years now, I should think nothing you say or do is especially shocking. But I am so interested in this, that rather than call the authorities and file a complaint, I am going to indulge you. Prey, tell me why I am going to drop my case against John?"

There was a pause as Holmes reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the photograph. Unable to resist, I turned ever so slowly, peaking my head around the corner until both were in my visual range. I saw in time my sister reach up to take the object. And then she did something that I dare say neither Holmes nor I expected. She turned completely white.

And attacked him.

"How dare you! How dare you!" She screamed. Again, I nearly came out of my hiding place. She was furious. More irate than ever I had seen her. And Holmes, who had no trouble in the past subduing attacks, (he was a champion of the ring, after all) took one or two scratches to the face before he managed to get hold of my sister's wrists.

"Stop!" He yelled. "Control yourself, right now!" And with that, he pushed her back into her seat.

"Control myself?! You foul, repulsive..."

"You can call me all the names you care to, Miss Watson. But it will not change anything. It will not change the fact that I know about your son." He touched his face where it was bleeding, clicking his tongue. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out both his flask and handkerchief.

Son?! 

But had _I _heard right? No, it could not be. I must have mis-heard him.

Holmes poured a little of the contents onto his handkerchief and pressed it onto his cheek, hissing with the pain. Sitting back down, he regarded Abigail with cool and collected eyes. "Now, if you can control your emotions, I think perhaps we can talk about this like rational people. If not, than I will leave right now, taking the photograph and the knowledge of what it represents with me..."

"No! Please, I beg you!" Abigail grabbed his coat and held him back with surprising strength.

"You ought to beg after everything you have tried to do!" But then in a flash he took a deep breath and his entire essence slackened as he pulled himself free. "But I will not let it come to that. I am above such measures, even if you are not. Now, prey resume your seat."

She did. The fire had dimmed immensely.

"How did you know?" Asked she, in nearly a whisper. "How did you find it? How did you find out about Harry?"

Harry? But the only Harry I knew was my brother. But then I remembered what my son had said. She called him Harry... 

"I first suspected it at Baker Street when first we met." He paused, clearing his throat. "It is my habit, as I am sure you are aware, to fully observe everyone who steps foot in 221 B. You were no exception. And the one thing above all that was suspicious in my mind was your dress." He let his eyes fall down on her, taking in her gown. "It had been altered. And while it is not unusual for a woman, particularly a..._thrifty_ woman, to have her dresses altered, it _is_ unusual for an unmarried woman to have such a severely altered outfit. Suggesting to me either extreme loss of weight or pregnancy. And I was inclined to believe the latter."

My sister said nothing, just sat, stroking the picture with one finger. So my friend continued:

"Adding to this was your slip of the tongue. You called John Sherlock by the name Harry. I knew that it couldn't be your brother Harry that you were thinking of. So why would you say such an obscure thing? This hypothesis that I felt growing in my mind seemed probable. But my suspicions were only that. I knew that in order to prove it, I would have to come here. One of the first things I observed was your family plot out back. Your brother was able to tell me the occupants of every grave. Except one. This one was very odd, for it bore no headstone. And the only reason I could think of that someone may have done something so unsacred is because they feared detection."

"The discovery of the photograph proved it in my mind. You did well to hide every other object that may have possibly linked this child to you in a few dusty boxes in your cellar, but this one photograph..." He gently turned it still in her own hand, and read, "Henry James Watson, 1894, age three." Looking at her with very nearly a tenderness that I didn't expect from him, particularly with this woman, he said, "The rest becomes much clearer. Your child was suffering from Amentia4. No doubt from the minute he was born, the doctor must have told you he would not live long. But as any mother would, you became attached to your offspring. You tried to ignore his imperfections, and treat him as the only heir your family had. But then, you received a letter. From your brother. He was now married and had a son of his own. A perfect son. Perfect in body and mind. And you knew that Josh was the true heir, and not your child."

"I loved him! As God is my witness, I loved that child!" Abigail screamed. "And he was suffering!"

Holmes stopped suddenly, and even from my shadows I could see as his eyes widened. A sudden realization seemed to course through him. I don't think she meant to say the last statement, but perhaps the guilt of sensing a presence that constantly looked down on her became at last too much, and the confession poured out. Holmes saw me, and I he at the same moment. And no more could I remain where I was. I realized it. I knew what he knew. It stabbed at me like a blade to the heart. The loss of a nephew that I never had met, the pain in my sister's face, the horrid realization of what she had done. I came out, slowly, a feeling that reminded me only of being at war, the very time when the Afghans had nearly taken my life with the two bullets. It was as if time had slowed to being under water. The echo of my own shoes seemed loud and drawn out. I closed in on the target. She didn't look up to see me until I had hold of her.

"How could you?" I asked, grabbing her arm. "Oh, Abby, how could you? Your own child?"

She looked up at me, but was not especially surprised at seeing me. Her eyes were fogged over; seemingly as close to breaking down as she was capable of. "You don't know, John," said she at last. "How could you know? You're child was not...not like Harry. He is beautiful to look at. He wasn't sick. Sick in both his body and mind. You didn't have to look at him getting worse and worse day after day, and being helpless!"

"But why did you not tell me? Not only am I your brother, but I also happen to be a doctor"-

"There was nothing you could have done." She interrupted very suddenly.

"But"-

"There is another reason, Watson, that she didn't tell you."

I turned to my friend. "Why is that?"

"Because of who the child's father is."

Abigail shot up out of her chair with a look of possession. I was certain that she was going to repeat her performance of a few minutes past and attack Holmes again, but she did not. And it was not because I had time to react, and restrain her. The two-Abigail and Holmes-glared at each other with such ferocity that I hardly can describe it. It was utterly excluded. The saying 'if looks could kill' just does not do it justice. I could nearly smell the venom that was locked between the heartless dark brown and the intrepid steel grey.

"It's not true," said my sister. "There is no way you could"-

"I _do _know. I know that your cousin"-

"DON"T!"

But he did. "Your cousin Basil Watson is the child's father."

And Abigail at last broke down.

I felt my knees give out under me. Quickly, I slapped at the edge of the table, managing to grab it and to lower myself into a chair before I could fall onto the floor. _Basil? My sister had a child by our cousin? _"Basil? Abby..."

But she was shaking. Her head was pressed into her hands. Her entire body was shaking. She made not a sound, but I could see that her entire visible body had taken on a reddish flooding.

I turned to Holmes with a bewildered gesture. There were so many things left unexplained by this turn of events. I gazed at him helplessly. And the strong connection that I always suspected we shared became blatantly apparent. For he knew exactly what I could not manage to ask.

"The first clue was that this very morning I went to the census bureau to check the local of any of your relations that may be in the area, Watson. My original intention was that I hoped I may learn something from any of these people that I could use. The only possibility was one Basil Watson and family located in Canterbury. I found it singular when you said that your sister wrote you of your cousin George being institutionalised. She also informed you when your aunt died. But you said that she never wrote anything of Basil. That seemed to me rather odd, considering out of all of the bunch, you told me that she and Basil were the closest."

"Haven't I been punished enough!" Yelled my sister. "That you might spare revealing this to the only family I have left."

"You brought this on yourself, Miss Watson," said my friend. "You should have realised that I would go to any lengths to protect Watson and his son." And with that said, he pulled a ring out of his overcoat pocket. It was a gold band and immediately I recognised it. It was engraved with a knight's head, and on the shield three crescent moons and three martletts. The Watson family coat of arms. As the eldest son, my uncle George had received the ring from his father. And he of course, passed it on to his eldest son. Basil. My cousin had received the ring on his 16th birthday, days before going off to Edinburgh for school. And although I had had no doubts in Holmes' accusations, I now was utterly convinced he had uncovered the whole dark tale somehow my sister had managed to keep from me for years.

"I think it is quite unnecessary for me to bring the portrait in from your very own hearth to confirm that this is your cousin Basil's ring. As it is on his finger there."

Abigail looked up, her eyes red-rimmed and her face flushed. She still was tremulous with emotion.

And for the first time since seeing her two months ago, I felt some emotion other than anger, nervousness and contempt. I felt empathy for my only sister. "Abby," I said, taking her hand. All the angry, disgusting and untrue words she had screamed at Holmes were forgotten momentarily, and all I could see was my own little sister. "What happened? You can tell me. I am still your brother. You can trust me, upon my word."

She looked up weeping. There was only one other time when I had seen her cry. It was when Basil had announced he was leaving for school. She had not even cried when Father had died. Only had stood over his grave for hours on end, just staring at the marker. But now she cried. "Johnny..." she whispered. "Don't be angry with me. I didn't mean it. Swear to me you won't tell Papa. You must swear. Mam either. I couldn't stand it if she were angry with me again. Please don't tell them Johnny!"

I sucked in a breath, and felt my head turn toward Holmes. He nodded, his eyes softening somewhat. "I...I won't tell, Abby. Just tell me what happened."

And she did, talking to the picture:

"I had to do it Harry. I couldn't see you suffer any more. I kept taking you to London, to every doctor I could find. Except Johnny of course. And everyone told me the same thing. You were dying. There was no hope. I prayed, I prayed every night, but you never got any better. You weren't growing. You were three years old, and you couldn't even sit upright. I would listen to you gasping for breath, and asking the Lord why he would make such a small, innocent child suffer, but he would never answer. I asked him to take you home, but he wouldn't do that either. He just made you weaker, and suffer more. It was my fault! I was being punished!"

"No, Abby, that couldn't"-

But Holmes wrapped his hands around my shoulders, stopping me. "No, Watson. She is disassociating; probably does not even realise we are here. It is what happens when something so painful is kept bottled up for so long. Let her finish."

"Do you remember, Harry, when we went to Kensington? We walked past your Uncle's house. We saw his wife and child, your cousin, out front. They were both so perfect. His wife was beautiful and kind, and I could tell how much she loved my nephew. And the little boy. He was so...lovely. And intelligent. He was such a perfect little Watson. And then I knew..."

"That night Harry, as I sat up with you again, as you moaned and drooled, I knew that God was not listening to me. He was angry at what Basil and I had done. At our great sin. And like Solomon, my child was being punished for my own sins. And I couldn't allow it. So I took the pillow"-

"I can't hear this, Holmes. This is too much!"

But my sister continued, stroking the picture of the tiny child. My only nephew. Who would never get the chance to know his Uncle or cousin. "It was over so quickly. And at last he was silent. And at peace. He wasn't in pain anymore. I had done the right thing. It had to be the right thing..." She looked up at me. "Wasn't it, brother? Wasn't it the right thing?"

But I couldn't answer such a question. How could anyone? She had taken the life of an innocent. No matter the pain that he was in, all I could see was my own two little children. Could I do the same if Josh were to become hopelessly ill; if he was suffering? And my little Vera, who never was given the chance to breath a single breath of air in this world; what I wouldn't have given to give her those three years that her son had. I just couldn't answer such questions better left to poets and saints.

But Holmes could. Even after this day, and what had been said, he still was as always. A gentleman. And I shall never until the die that I am no more forget what he said to her:

"No God would ever ignore, nor forgive not the truly repentant, Miss Watson. Remember that your child is watching you, and would he want that his mother is still suffering for the gift of freedom that she gave? I think not. But how can you hope to be forgiven until you release the guilt in your own heart?"

He spokes so gently, so...not as himself. It was not as if he could not be sincere or compassionate, but as he had stated to me after I accused him of not being very sympathetic to an especially needy client: 'He doesn't come to me for sympathy..."5

But now...now I was the cold, distant one. And he was saying what I could not.

"You do not think that God will punish me for what I have done?" My sister asked in a whisper.

"The only punishment," said Holmes. "Is the one that you inflict on yourself. I do not claim to believe in all that Christianity professes. It is not logical, and agnosticism seems to be the only option for a man of science. However, faith does offer one thing that science does not. And that is love. I cannot say that always have I recognised this. But only such a powerful device as this emotion could have compelled you, Miss Watson, to risk your life and soul to save your child. The same goes for you, Watson."

Abigail looked at him in such a way that I was sure she was seeing him for the first time. As a human being. "I think that perhaps you do understand, Mr. Holmes."

"Nothing destroys the mind more than guilt. It is life transcended into Hell."

"Yes," my sister whispered. "Hell. It lacked the fire and brimstone, but Hell it was, nonetheless."

"But Abby," said I. "It doesn't have to be. You lost your child. Believe me when I say that I feel that pain. However, how will ruining the life of your only living brother in any way end your torment?"

"Redemption is the path home again. And in John Sherlock, you no doubt saw a chance at redemption."

"He is very important," said Abigail.

"Yes," Holmes agreed. "He is. And that is why you are going to do the right thing. And that, of course, is to drop this case against your brother, and let the boy alone. It may be the only chance that you have."

My sister got to her feet, still clutching the photo of the child I had yet to see. She made no move to respond.

"Abigail?" I asked.

No response.

"Abigail, please, I beg you!" Leaping to my feet, I grabbed her arm. "I am sorry for your loss, truly I am, but you are not the only one who has suffered! You must understand..." I took a deep breath. "I cannot take any more."

"Go."

"Pa...pardon me?"

"Leave me in peace. Come back in a day or two. But now, I need to be alone."

"And what of the boy?" Asked Holmes.

She turned and the two were once again face-to-face. "Mr. Holmes, I have quite underestimated you. I thought, after reading all of your published cases, that I would be ready to handle you. But you are more intelligent, more resilient, and more guile than ever I would have been prepared for. And although I still dread that my only nephew will be raised amongst you, if I never am forced to see you again as long as I am on this planet, I will be satisfied. And I will Kiss the Book upon it that for his sake and John's, your secret is safe."

Now I myself was struck rather speechless upon her brazenness at this, and I think that deep down, Holmes had not been this startled by the actions of a woman since _the _woman. Irene Adler. And what that woman had done was nothing compared to my own sister. But what could he do? He had won, but at the cost of all respect and dignity. And so Holmes bowed his head for a fraction of a second, backing up a step or two. "Than that will be enough," said he.

I could have said something. I know now how much I owed it to Sherlock Holmes to have said something then. Something defending his actions, saving his honour, salvaging the pride that he had thrown to the wind for my sake. But I did not. Instead, I felt only my own relief. That Josh would be safe at home in his bed and I did not have to worry that that may change.

Besides, there was enough else to worry my mind.

We arrived back in London after ten, and while usually I consider myself one who prefers to bed-down early, this night I was completely awake. Thoughts were racing through my mind like sixty. And not thoughts regarding my sister. Those wounds were too new, too fresh. There would be time for grieving later. Now, there was only one obsession that stabbed at me. Over and again.

But I will see you burn in Hell before I will allow you to ruin both his life and Josh's! Even if I have to sacrifice my own!" 

Would he have really done such a thing?

_My love for John..._

Love.

Holmes had risked much, so much more than perhaps I can possibly explain or even fathom myself. I knew he was a man of honour, of chivalry, but still, to risk his name, his reputation, perhaps even his very life on his love for me.

_How could he do that?_

_How could I let him?_

_How could I have stood beside that madness?_

But I think perhaps, as Holmes often accuses me, I was neglecting the bigger picture. And the question, I fear was actually:

How could I stand there, beside him, knowing what Abigail could do with this information? I could have just taken Josh, left England, started over. After all, what had I that forced me to remain? My practise, my home, my writing? All of these palled in comparison to my name, my honour and my freedom.

Except for Sherlock Holmes.

I, too, was risking everything for him.

That thought terrified me. More so than going to war, than losing my son, than death itself even. I was nearly sick with the knowledge. And yet, I didn't exactly know why that was.

Back in Baker Street, Holmes threw himself into his armchair after pouring a sherry for both he and I. He seemed in a contented mood despite the bleakness of the day. Although I am sure that his success in restoring my son to me and solving this mystery (if you care to call it that; it hardly seemed so to me) had a positive effect on the man, no one could endure the lashing he did without feeling some sting Yet as soon as the fire was crackling and he was comfortable with his overcoat removed, he looked at me with a pensive expression.

"Come and sit, my friend," said he. "And we will discuss what is on your mind."

_We will? _"There is nothing I wish to discuss."

He gave me the sternest of looks, but it too was nearly humorous. "I would suggest, my dear sir, that you never serve in Parliament. You are a deplorable liar." He motioned his glass to my own armchair, directly in front of him.

But I was far too roused up to sit. Had I been back at Blackheath6, I could have scored a hundred tries7 alone with the energy I felt right then. My heart pounded against my breast, and the sherry sent my hollow stomach aflame.

He wished to know what was on my mind. He expected me to be able to communicate this, as if the terror I stood facing was able to be put into words.

Everything that had occurred over five and one-half months I suddenly felt again; a chemical reaction waiting only for a catalyst to stimulate it. And today had been that catalyst. I finally accepted it. But I was yet to understand it.

"Why, Holmes?"

I tried to convey all the weight and gravity that I now knew the two words carried. But I fear I failed. They sounded only as flat words and not as the apocalypse they truly were. "Why..." I tried again.

"Why what, doctor?"

_Why did you admit your feelings to my sister?_

_Why did you say you would allow yourself to be ruined for my sake?_

_Why do I dream terrifying things of you at night?_

_Why do I fear what I rambled while delirious in Meiringen?_

_Why do I feel around you as never I have before?_

_Why do you love me?_

"Why did I kill my wife?" I blurted out.

I didn't ever realise I had said it until the force of it hit me. And when I did, I felt my eyes widen; a cold as brutal as ice drench my body. What had I said? Good Lord, what had I said?

I turned in time to see my friend nearly drop his sherry. It was clear that he was as surprised as I, given the fact that he shot to his feet. "What did you say?" He whispered. "What in the name of all that is good did you say?"

"I killed her. It's my fault that she is dead."

It was the first time that I had expressed aloud what I had tortured myself over since the 15th of September. In a perverted way, I felt a release at simply saying it; having another hear my confession, if you will. But it also felt horrid all the same. I had just admitted to murder, or nearly as severe. I was no different than my sister.

"I should give you a well-deserved blow for your cruelty, Watson," said Holmes, grabbing my shoulder so hard that he spun me around. "If you were any other man, and if I were not so worried about you. How could you say something both so untrue and unworthy of yourself? You are no more responsible for your wife's death than the child in her womb."

"But I put that child there! If I hadn't created it, than Mary would be alive right now. And Josh would have his mother, and I..." I stopped, not being able to continue.

"And you would never have known my feelings for you. That is what it comes down to, is it not?"

I didn't know how to respond to that. Perhaps it was, and I hadn't even realised it until that moment. In my heart, did I really think that I was responsible for Mary's death? I had done nothing but what any man would-create a family. Had it really been that because Mary had died, Holmes had returned with his proclamation of love? If she hadn't, than probably I would never have known. I couldn't say. I could claim the immense guilt within me, but not it's source.

With a long sigh, I swallowed the remains of my sherry, gagging as I swallowed it. Alcohol on an empty stomach only clogged my throat and mind, already jumbled. "Holmes, why do you...love me?"

There. It had been said.

"That is what all of this comes down to?"

"No," said I, reaching for the decanter. "After today, after all of these months, I honestly cannot say that issue _is _what all of this is about. But I have to know all the same. Why, Holmes? Why me? If you are what you are, than I cannot fault you for it, but why me? I must know."

"You must know?"

"Yes! Tell me!" Why was this so difficult? "Is it as you told my sister today? Is it some bond that is stronger than anything known in science? Is it because you are not as young as you once were, and you realise now that deduction cannot transcend time, and love can? Have you suddenly developed a Shakespearian mind? Or is it some sort of er..._physical _attraction? What is it, man!"

Holmes stared at me as I recited this spontaneous and impassioned speech. Stared in the wholly inhuman way that I have never seen another capable of. And then to my great shock, his mouth twisted into a smile and he burst out laughing. "Oh, Watson! My very dear Watson! That was truly inspired, was it not? I should never have guessed how much the theatre lost out on when you chose the medical profession. Capital!"

"How dare you mock me!" I sputtered. "I am trying to be serious!"

"As am I. I assure you. _You _are the one being overtly dramatic for a change. Now, don't be angry with me. I really couldn't help myself. I wasn't being condescending, 'pon my word, I was not."

"What of it, then?" I asked, still feeling a little irate.

"It is not something so easily explained, Watson. You ask as if I can march to that chalkboard and write out the equation in simple mathematics. God, how I wish it were that simple. For the longest time, I'll admit despite the fact you shall think me quite arrogant for it, I thought there was nothing that wasn't possible for me to solve using science and logic. And then I felt these empty longings within the crevices of my body that did not exist before. These feelings were not logical nor rational. I could not explain them. For the longest time, I did not even understand them."

"Lo...longings?"

He glared at me. "I am not a machine, Watson! That is a notion _you_ have endowed me with! To be a cold and calculating _thing_, not capable of such things! I am as flesh and blood as you, and how dare you assume that you are the only one of the two of us who is a man!"

Bitter guilt stabbed at me as a thousand needles of pain. He was right. How could I have said such things? But it was only because I thought it true. "Holmes!" I said, moving closer. "My dear Holmes, I never meant...what I mean is, it was only because I assumed such emotions as love _were _absent from your mind. Certainly, you have done a good job in convincing me they were. But I never meant to assume that you did not have the same desires as every man. In fact, if you recall, I was always the fellow that tried to _encourage_ you to find some love in life. I just...I just never guessed..." Well, he knew what I had never guessed. That the love in his life he desired was not some pretty fair thing, but myself.

He smiled at that, seemingly enticed by my embarrassment. "It was my intention that you never know. And as for your observations of my emotional state, God knows, my friend, I have tried to be that man. To this moment, there is nothing I wouldn't give to not feel this. It is unfair to the both of us, and especially you."

"But"-

"Let me explain it to you this way. Do you remember the case of the Baskervilles?"

"Of course. How could I forget?"

"And the case of the Speckled Band?"

"That was an ugly business."

"And of course, the infamous incident at Reichenbach..."

"Holmes, what does all of this to do with the price of tea in China?"

"Everything," he stated firmly. "In each of those cases, I felt fear that I have not known in...well, a very long time. When first we met, I considered you an inconsequential man. When exactly my opinion changed, I cannot tell you, but every time I allowed you to accompany me on a case, I thought of how much trust you must have in me. I thought of how you thought of my protection. How you thought of the greater good. I thought of how you wrote of me...making me into some perfect idol of science and deduction. I thought of how happy you were with Miss Morstan, yet how you still would back to me." His long fingers stretched out to the bottle of sherry, and poured a little more into his glass. "And then I came to a realisation. The most perfect and terrifying realisation of my entire life."

My mouth went dry. "What..." I asked.

"You are trusting, I am suspicious. You are faithful, I am sceptical. You are loyal, I am untrustworthy. You are instinctive, I am scientific. You are gregarious, I am introverted. You are humble, and I am proud. You are optimistic, I am pessimistic. You are enduring, I am impatient. You are the public, and I am the private. You are heart, and I am mind. Well, I could go on, could I not?"

"But...but then aren't you saying that we are opposites?"

"No, Watson, you miss the point entirely! We are not _opposites_, we are as the ancient Chinese say 'yin and yang.' Two parts of a whole. Without one, the other would cease to exist."

I considered this rationally. Or at least attempted to. "You are saying, as I understand it, that it is as the Romantic poets call it-soul-mates? Destiny? Or something to that effect?"

"Most emotional responses can be attributed to biochemical reactions. Anger, happiness, sadness... 'love' as it is called by many is merely a physical reaction to the promise of promotion of one's traits into future generations. To be frank, it is merely a sexual reaction."

I cleared my throat. "Yes, well..."

"However, love in actuality is far different. It transcends the corporeal body. It is a realisation. Self-actualisation. That without the other, you yourself would be far less a person." He stopped for a long dramatic swig of sherry. "And that is the answer, my dear Dr. Watson. The answer that I came to after months, maybe years of study. Without you, I am incomplete. Half a man. That is why I had to come back after Reichenbach despite my best efforts. That is why part of me feels the wound in your chest that I unwillingly put there. That is why I had to risk life and limb for yours and John Sherlock's well-being. And that is why I know both your sister and wife will forgive the guilty heart you have. And finally, it is how I know you did kill her."

"K-kill?"

"You did not kill your wife," he said is a softer voice. "It is exactly as I told your sister. You are the best of men. My better-half. The only one I could ever..." But then his mind so lost on this great quest failed at last, and he could not think of a word in English to describe it. "Well. If there were any reason at all for me to suspect you guilty of this or any other crime, I would certainly not be sitting here confessing my most veiled deductions to you. The ones of you. And myself."

I felt my mouth clench shut. It was instantaneous, and I cannot honestly say I have ever felt anything like it before. This crushing weight that had manifested itself as some overgrown tumour seemed to implode from within my chest. It had been there for six long months now, crushing me, causing unworthy thoughts to race through my mind. It was exactly as Holmes had said to my sister. A guilty mind truly is life transcended into Hell.

But no more. The greatest mind on this great planet of ours had cleared me. I had always considered _him_ the best of men. And the best of men would not feel this way about me if he thought I had any sin within my heart.

The relief was so great that I could have nearly cried.

But instead I did something much different. And even more shocking. I grabbed Holmes by the arm, pulling him toward me rather forcibly. Before I knew exactly what was happening, we were joined in a most intimate way at the mouth. I was breathing in him, and he in me. I tasted the sherry, mixed with his heavy tobacco and a hint of mint from what I assumed to be mouthwash.

It lasted only a few seconds-three, at most. But it was long enough to stir within me intense feelings. Two feelings were recognisable enough. One was a fiery ache in my groin that suddenly screamed to life. After seven months abstinence, my maleness awoke to the longings of the flesh, and my body responded likewise.

_I was being aroused by the kiss of a man._

This thought caused the other emotion. Terror. I immediately pulled away, pulled away as suddenly as I'd pulled him to me. Sucking in an enormous breath of cleansing smoke, I felt my entire body burn. My most recent wound began to pulse where the bullet was removed from my back. Grimacing, I clutched at my chest.

_What had I done?_

My sight fell onto Holmes. Possessing not the literary gifts of Misters Shakespeare, Dickens or Jonson, I could not possibly find the words to describe either the silence that filled the room, the pain that coursed through me or

Especially the look of Sherlock Holmes.

Was it shock? Yes. Joy? No doubt. Fear? Indeed. And wonder? I shall say so. And possibly a thousand other emotional meanings resonated in every line of his brow, every hallowed shadow of his eye, every slacking tremble of his jaw. He stared at me as a man would who suddenly saw his soul leap from his body and seal itself in the pocket of another.

It was official now. A kiss, perhaps the most sacred of Love's acts, was to promise that never would I be clean again. Lewd Acts, as the law stated it, had begun. I was wilfully breaking the laws of both my God and my country.

Something cracked loudly within the fire, breaking the silence. My eyes fell upon the red-orange flames and I could see the end. Where the end would be.

I jumped to my feet, the searing pain still racing throughout my veins, causing sweat to pour off my face.

Holmes, too, sensing what I was about to do, stood erect and came toward me. One arm was outstretched. One hand was shaking slightly. But I couldn't bear it.

"Watson, wait! For God's sake..." 

_God? What did he have to do with it?_

I couldn't answer for I had already charged down the stairs and out the door of 221 B.

1 St. Augustine Confessions 10:23

2 Romans 7:20

3 Holmes would have to have spent much time interpreting the Bible to lead to this argument. That the sin of Sodom was not homosexuality at all, but rather inhospitality. It is a well-known argument now, but far lesser so then. Let that be a credit to his genius.

4 Mental retardation.

5 Hilton Cubit, in _The Dancing Men_

6 Watson played rugby for Blackheath

7 A try is a goal (worth 5 points)


	15. Chapter 15

_Thanks for the reviews from everyone! _

A cold blast of air hit me as I ran into Baker Street. I hadn't either my hat or coat, but the physical sensation of cold that ripped through my clothes was the furthest thing from my mind. I knew only that I had to get away. What had just happened could not have…well, just happened. But it did.

It was approaching midnight and in a resurgence of winter, the unpredictability of March had reared its ugly head. The first signs of a promising spring seemed gone. And the wind howled and hissed in my ears. Even Mother Nature knew.

Because I feared that Holmes may come after me, I immediately spied a cab idling near Regents Park and ran over. The driver seemed asleep, nodding in the driver's seat with his arms crossed. The horse spewed steam from its nostrils, stamping impatiently at the ground. With a quick glance over my shoulder, I slapped at the door loud enough to wake the fellow, who I thankfully did not recognise.

He jumped slightly and glanced at me with annoyance, but resumed the reigns in his hand. "Where to, mate?"

"Anywhere that's not here will do for now." Said I, climbing in. "And don't spare the whip, if you please."

"Eh-you don't know where you wanna go, but you wanna get there right quick?"

"That's right. Now let's be off, if you don't mind." I sounded collected. Perfectly normal.

Leaning my body against the cold seat, I was jerked forward as the cabbie whipped up, and the nag trotted off west, toward Marylebone Road.

I felt Holmes next to me, although for all I knew, he was still stunned back on the settee in the sitting room of 221B. Or perhaps the shock had worn off, and he was analysing the situation. He could even have been after me this very second. But wherever he was, I felt his lingering presence there. On me, to be exact. Warm. Hard. Inexperienced yet assertive.

The alcohol. The tobacco and mint. What was his was mine. For a moment, we had been one. I was even the one that instigated it. Why had I done that?

And I obviously was not disgusted by it. If anything, my body had craved those physical sensations I had taken from him. To this very moment, I felt a longing pulse that should not have been. One that never had been caused by a man before. Not even at the times in my life where no females where available. Such as all those long, cold nights in Afghanistan, crammed into tents with the foul stench of a dozen of my comrades up my nostrils. It is those times of life and death that can cause a man to nearly forget himself.

Remembering all the chats and boastings that go hand-in-hand with serving in close combat situations, I couldn't help but fear what all the former Fusiliers would say if they knew that John H. Watson had just intimately kissed a man and had been aroused by it.

Lord. Good Lord.

"Driver!" Said I, leaning my head out the window. "I need to get to Ave Maria1…er…just drop me at Saint Paul's."

My friend the cabbie turned to glance at me over his shoulder. He knew, but I cared not. "Guess you want the best, eh, mate?"

I narrowed my eyes at his mockery, fighting the urge to lay one on his jaw. But in a way, he was right. I was far from affluent, but I would not settle for some back of the alley West End tart who allowed you to pin her against a wall, hoping that you were too drunk to notice that she was taking you in her thighs. The last thing I needed on top of everything that was falling fast in my life was some sort of venereal disease.

The church bell at Saint Paul chimed the hour as my cab clopped around to the Ave Maria Alley. The cabbie accepted his fare without a smirk and drove off. Briefly I stood wondering how many secrets these forgotten creatures carried with them. The liaisons of every man from pauper to parliament member. And now my own.

It was from one of my contemporaries at Saint Bart's hospital (which happened to be just across the way) that I had learned of this house of pleasure. It was pricey, I had learned, but the girls were first-rate; not diseased or sickly. Everyone of a high-rank had visited this place-possibly up to and including high ranking members of the government. Although I have taken an oath to not lie, deceive or omit any aspect of my life in this memoir as I was forced to in my published works, I cannot in good conscious reveal the names of those that have done me no harm. And so I shall not expose the exact location of this place, nor the names of those that run and keep the house operational.

Also, it is prudent not to give myself airs at this time. You may have heard that my knowledge of women is extensive, throughout three continents, and I will not have you suppose I have never set foot in these houses before. But I will insist that whatever weakness I have had in the past for the pleasures of the flesh, all of this ceased when I became my wife's husband. It may be common for man to seek out mistresses whether internal or external,2 but I loved her with my entire heart, and would never have saddened her by my actions.

And because I had not had a woman since before Mary, I now stood feeling partly guilty and partly ashamed. But it wasn't exactly carnality that was propelling me here now. It was for my own sake. To prove a point.

The door was opened by a middle-aged woman with steely coloured hair and eyes to match. At one point in life, she would have been quite attractive, but the stresses of life seemed to have prematurely aged her. "Yes?" She asked after answering my bell. "Who sent you?"

"No one. This place was recommended to me."

She narrowed her eyes.

"I'm not a police officer, madam."

That seemed to settle it. The door opened and I was permitted access. The inside looked like a normal home, with all the decorations that one would expect. But there was good reason for that, and it should be obvious.

"Have you any idea of the time?" Madam said to me, leading me through the house toward a partition curtain.

"My apologies." I could think of nothing else to say.

"My girls are used to it. They'll get used to whatever you wish, if you pay well enough for it."

"I can oblige that."

She smiled. "Then, sir, the world is yours. I suppose you are looking for a fresh maiden3?"

"Well…" I cleared my throat, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. What was I doing? How was being here, thinking with my loins and not my brain helping matters?

"Perhaps you are looking for something a little more…unorthodox? I have girls that specialise-"

"No! Not at all!" The last thing I wanted was something unorthodox. I wanted it plain, regular, usual, normal…as it was supposed to be.

The madam looked at me, and I turned away. "You needn't be concerned about your anonymity, sir. I assure you that we have kept the secrets here of men of all ranks of power"-

Kept the secrets?

It was the same as was with Holmes. How many clients had he assuaged of their worries by assuring them that both he and I were completely trustworthy? I didn't know, but I certainly felt as if, at that moment, I was violating some sort of trust. What would Holmes say...

"Whatever is wrong?"

I snapped back to attention, facing the proprietor. "My apologies," said I. "But I…I must leave. I fear I came here for all the wrong reasons."

"The wrong reasons?" She laughed. "Sir, there is only one _reason_ why a gentleman comes here."

"Yes…" Normally I would agree to that. But now I could not. I wasn't sure why I was here anymore. "But I really must go. I'm sorry that I disturbed you." Before she could say anything else, I was out the door with my face completely flushed, running toward a target just across the street. Partly, I was relieved that I hadn't done anything impulsive and irrational. But another part was horrified at why I had really just run out of there like a fool.

By the time I got to Saint Paul's cemetery I was completely out of breath, and my lungs felt as though they were on fire. Sweat pasted down my hair and the perspiration turned my entire body to ice in the growing wintriness of the night. But even in the pitch black, I knew on instinct right where I needed to go.

_Mary Morstan Watson_

_Beloved wife and mother…_

I fell to my knees in front of the grave, feeling a stab of pain in my old leg wound as I did. Clutching it in one hand, I stared into the carved letters hoping that they would provide some sort of answer to all of my problems. "Oh, Mary…" I whispered. "Whatever should I do?"

But the darkness gave no reply. There was only the wind that sent continuing chills throughout every inch of my body.

"I just cannot think on this," said I to her grave. "I cannot think…what would happen. What he said about the two of us…"

"_No, Watson, you miss the point entirely! We are not opposites, we are as the ancient Chinese say 'yin and yang.' Two parts of a whole. Without one, the other would cease to exist."_

"I have never seen him like that, Mary. He was…vulnerable. All be it he _was _trying to rationalise something as emotional as love. But I have to admit…I can see it. It is of course, merely his opinion, yet still…I have always wondered about the theory of fate. To me now, I can see it, 14 years ago, on that chilly February afternoon, when Holmes and I met. Was it fate that I came across young Stamford at the Criterion, and that both Holmes and I were looking for lodgings? It was extraordinary luck that I survived my injuries to even make it to London…and then Moriarty…how many times did the two of us stare into the black face of Death itself and survive? And what was it that we survived to?"

"_You are saying, as I understand it, that it is as the Romantic poets call it-soul-mates? _

"Is that what we are, Mary, soul-mates? Does that explain the uncanny fascination that I have always had for the man? Does that explain why I have always felt this connecting tissue between the two of us? Or is more simplistic and austere than that?"

The remembrance of that kiss flooded through me once again, and again I felt pain in each of my three wounds.

Reaching forward, I gripped the side of my wife's tomb. _Or was it pain?_

Was this all more straightforward then I was making it?

Was there a more _human _reason that I had embraced Holmes and enjoyed it?

No. No, that couldn't be it! Could it?

And then I remembered the dream. Mary, beautiful as sunlight, fading before me as my body struggled to regain consciousness against my mind's wishes. I remembered what she had said: _"You must forgive yourself. For what has happened, and for what will happen. There is no sin in you in my eyes._

For what will happen? But how could I…had it really been a dream at all? Or something else…a vision.

_You must forgive yourself for what will happen._

Oh, God.

It was true.

I can honestly say that at that moment, kneeling there alone in the cold death of dark, that never have I been so afraid of myself before. And for once, there were no options. There was nothing I could do.

Except blot it out. Give in to my heritage. And so with my knees barely able to hold my body erect, I stumbled off toward the less fashionable part of London that I usually avoided. I had only one thing on my mind. To drink until the realisation was no longer there. No matter how much it took.

The Cock and Bull just off of Newgate Street, was the first pub I happened upon, and to the best of my knowledge, I had never set foot in it before. It was filled with fish mongers and fruit vendors, as well as even lower forms of life. I first thought of simply beer or port, about as hard when it comes to liquor as I usually will venture, but instead I ordered my father's milk: scotch-whiskey. Straight. The publican4 handed me the glass without a second thought.

The quality was hardly first-rate. But after drinking the grotesque fruity white wine in Afghanistan that most of the men in my attachment would drink whenever they could not get a hold of anything civilised, I could get used to anything. It was strong, burned, and tasted contaminated. But I drank it anyway. And then another. And another after that…

Was I no different than Holmes? Had I been denying something all of these years, even to myself? After all, I couldn't deny what I felt with him, even after only a few seconds. And in my younger days, would I have fled from the anticipated arms of a woman, even one designed only to satisfy my loins and not my heart or mind?

I most certainly would not have.

Glancing nervously around me, I tried to study the men of the pub without looking as if I were doing so. Had any other chap ever, even in my loneliest moments in the war and abroad, held the least bit attraction to me?

I tried to give it an honest reflection, despite the growing cloud of whiskey in my mind. But I can honestly say, to my great relief, that none had. Ever. I never sought the favour of men. I most assuredly preferred the fair sex, as was natural.

Then what the deuce was going on now?

The only solution that presented itself was the one Holmes offered. Fate. Yin and Yang. Destiny. Soul-Mates.

I cannot say that ever I really gave much thought to any of that before. Fate seemed an interesting concept, but there was no proof. And a soul-mate was someone Shakespeare created for his star-crossed lovers, not for an eccentric master detective and his biographer.

"Besides," I said aloud without realising I was doing so. "Shouldn't my soul-mate be a bloody woman?"

"What's that, friend?" The publican asked.

"Nothing…God forgive me I don't need to verbalise my problems."

"Gear. This is where everyone talks about their problems."

"Yes, well, I have more than my fair share. Pour me another."

Sometime between my eighth and ninth scotch, an old tramp sat down next to me at the bar. At first I paid him no mind, except to note his shabby ripe clothing and a head of wild greyish hair. But after several minutes of silence, he turned toward me. "Troubles, lad?" His voice was low and gravely.

As he turned, I saw that his face was more black than white. "Only my share," I answered, banging my glass against the counter to get the publican's attention.

"A penny for your thoughts?"

"I don't think you can spare one, actually, friend. But by all means, have a drink on me." I dug into my pocket and threw at shilling at him.

"Thank'e, lad, much appreciated, but I'm here on a singular purpose."

"A singular purpose?" I laughed. "My dear fellow, who comes to a dank hellhole such as this for any other purpose than to get…well, to feel up?"

"I've come to convince a dear friend he is making a grievous mistake."

He certainly sounded nothing like a tramp. "Well, I wish you luck, old fellow. May whatever 'grievous mistake' you are stopping him from committing be infinitely easier than my own."

"Than you admit you are making one, lad, falling into the detestable trap pf drinking alone."

"It seemed the only solution."

"The only solution, eh? Then there can be only one corner a man can back himself into that would propel him to such an end. Love."

I gave him a brief bleary-eyes stare. "You are very perceptive, sir."

"Tosh. It is written in every confused line of your brow and every shake of your hand as you further raise it to poison your mind."

"Yes, well," said I, seeing a brief reflection of my face in the glass. "My love is not like most other mens."

He laughed, a dry and hacking sound that proceeded into a fit of coughing. The congestion sounded very much like consumption. "I think, dear boy, every man thinks his love is unlike any other."

"I know mine is."

He clucked his tongue. "Poor Brutus…"

I began to choke. "What?"

His chuckled and his face contorted into a smile. "Shakespeare, lad. 'Poor Brutus, with himself at war, forgets the shows of love to other men5.'"

I turned to glare at him in surprise, his words shocking me. "Just who the bloody Hell are you?" I asked this tramp, but the instant I did, I saw through the wig and disguise. Two grey eyes I knew intimately stared through me. I grabbed his arm.

"Holmes!" I expostulated. "What are you doing here?"

"I should be asking you much the same thing, doctor. But the answer is obvious. And I must say, this is really foolish. Immensely immature and selfish."

I tried to stand then, for I was furious that he would take advantage of me in this fashion. I nearly didn't make it. The floor went horizontal the instant my feet touched it. I tried to grab for the counter but missed by feet. Thankfully, the hand of Holmes the tramp grabbed my elbow at the last second, and I was saved. Although I still felt like punching him hard as my condition allowed. "You…you…" But I could think of nothing vile enough to call him. "You blackguard! Your purposively did this! You wanted me to…to confess! You made me say that I _did _feel something…"

"For God's sake man, keep your voice down!" Holmes hissed. "Do you desire to have this whole rotting den of iniquity hear?"

We _were_ getting some odd looks. But I was far from my normal mindset, and could have cared less. "I shall never forgive you for this."

It hurt even now to think on that. That I'd actually said such a hash thing to that man.

But he realised it was the alcohol speaking. "I did this to find you and bring you home, doctor. Not for my own amusement or benefit. Acting impetuously as you did is the surest way to get into a lot of trouble."

"I'm already in a lot of trouble! It's called disgrace, dishonour, illegal…"

The publican was eying the two of us rather closely now.

Holmes pulled me closer by the arm until his mouth was right next to my ear. "Don't do anything more idiotic than you already have. Now, you are going to come home with me right this second. You're so done for you don't even realise what you're doing."

The publican narrowed his eyes at me. I could almost smell his suspicion. "Perhaps you're right," said I to my friend. "I think…I think I had better get home." I started for the door, but was immediately pulled back.

"No, Watson," said Holmes. "_We _had better get home. Come along."

Somehow, I, (or we, rather) made it back to Baker Street. My eyes were a blur, I could barely walk, and I felt sick already. I made it as far as the sitting room, where I promptly collapsed on the settee. At last the spinning stopped.

"Here," Holmes said, pressing a glass into my hand.

I took a sip, but immediately spat it back out. It was the most vile thing I had ever tasted. "What's this? Are you trying to poison me?"

"It's supposed to cure excess drink," said Holmes. "A remedy that I picked up."

"It is disgusting!"

"It's warm milk and soot."

"What?!"

A small grin passed over his face. "The milk is supposed to rehydrate the body and ease the stomach, and the soot is supposed to dispose of toxins…"

"That's madness! Utter quackery! Holmes, how could you fall for such a thing?"

"Never assume that something is madness by how new and queer it may sound," he replied, waving a finger at me. "Think of all those who thought the world was flat. Any suggestion otherwise was madness."

"Yes, well…" I set the glass on the floor, and tried to relax my body against the seat. In truth, all I wanted was to sleep for a month, and forget this most horrid of days. Somehow, though, I doubted that option was going to be available to me. "I don't think I could handle any more stairs tonight," I muttered drearily a few moments later. I couldn't have made it back to my feet right then, even if there were a fire.

"You'll fall and break your neck if you try, I think. How many whiskey's did you have-err…at least nine, I should guess."

"I don't recall. They all blend together."

He snorted, and I sensed his bottled-up fury for me. In the past, I only remembered him angry with me when I would make some blunder while helping him on a case. But as I reflect back on that night, I remember more than just the anger. There was the concern. And relief.

"How did you find me?" I asked. "There must be a thousand pubs in London. How did you know I would be at that particular one?"

"Actually, if you count in the public houses and general beer shops, there are over 20,000 in the entire metropolis."

"Really?"

"Absolutely. And I didn't know you be at the-what was it? Oh, yes, the Cock and Bull."

"But"-

"I had thought you would be at Saint Paul's cemetery."

I closed my eyes briefly. "I was."

"Yes-I know. Even in the dark, it was clear that someone had very recently departed the grave. The Cock and Bull was the nearest pub."

"And the disguise? To trap me?"

"Certainly not! To protect you. And myself."

"How did you know I would resort to drink?"

He stared at me as if to suggest every move I made was known to him, and we both ignored the question. He didn't want to answer and certainly I didn't want to _hear _his answer.

"Holmes?" I asked after awhile of silence. "There is something I must know." He was lighting up his pipe. The calabash. "What did I say in Meiringen?"

His eyes lit up as he snuffed out his match. "You cannot guess?"

"Oh, yes. I can guess. I suppose that I told you I loved you, wanted you, needed you…all sorts of things I probably would never say in a rational mind."

"As a matter of fact, you said nothing of the kind."

"I…I didn't? That's w…I mean, than what did I say?"

"Mostly it was gibberish. But eventually you began asking for various people…your wife, your son. Even your brother and mother."

"N-not you?"

"There was only one thing that you said directly to me."

"What was that?"

He leaned back in his chair, turning toward the window, encrusted in a late-season layer of frost. When he spoke again, it was a far different tone. "You said…you said only that you were sorry."

"Sorry?"

"You said-you said that after everything I had done for you, you were sorry that you couldn't do this one thing for me."

For an instant, my eyes went wide at that realisation, but then I closed them. My head was spinning. I didn't have the first clue what I was supposed to say to that. But I believed it. He wouldn't lie. Not to me, and not about this. Just as I was going to say something, anything, I felt a blanket fall over me, and saw Holmes standing over the seat. "It's very late," said he. "And you are going to have a hellish morning. I suggest you try and sleep."

I nodded, and he turned to go into his chamber, but I heard his boots stop half-way there. "Watson, would you have been surprised if I had told you that you _did _in fact say such things as loving me and needing me while you were feverish?"

I rolled over to face what was left of the fire, and could no longer see him standing there. The flames felt deliciously warm, despite my flushed skin. My eyes burned already and I could feel the ache in my head beginning, but I was rational enough at least. And just as he had not lied to me, I would not lie to him now. "No, Holmes," I told him. "I would not have been surprised."

I could not see him smile or nod or anything of the like, but he said nothing. Whether this admission angered or overjoyed him, I couldn't say. He walked into his room and silently shut the door behind him.

As the alcohol began to play havoc with my mind and senses, I fell into a hazy sleep. Dream-like images began to gnaw at my brain, and I was reliving all sorts of memories that I wanted gone. But not memories of the war, or my family, or anything of the like. Just the worst moment of my life.

_He was dead._

_His battle with Moriarty was over._

_But unlike God and Lucifer, this battle would end with no victor._

His paper, his letter was in my hand. The rushing torrent ploughed down on my friend's body. I should go and get someone. The authorities…anyone. Someone should be here to know what happened.

But I couldn't.

All I could do was stand on that rock and stare down. Tears poured down my cheeks, but I couldn't sob. It hurt too much.

Since I was a child, I could think of only two occasions that I had cried.

And both had been in front of him.

The greatest man…no, the greatest person, that I had ever known was dead.

And all I could think was that I wanted to join him.

I felt a loss greater than I could imagine. As if…

_I had been cut in half_.

With a feeling of intense shock, I opened my eyes. No, I was not in Reichenbach. I was home, back in Baker Street where I was supposed to be. And I just realised that even then, nearly four years ago, I had known. This was not the night of my realisation. It had been _that_ day. For three and a half years, I had lived a half-life. I had my wife and child, but this explained so much. Why I could not forget him. Why I kept all of my notes on he and his cases. Why I had fainted when he returned. And why I was so furious that he hadn't trusted me.

It was like the rain not trusting the sun to shine.

He had needed me, but even more so, I had needed him.

I grabbed for my watch, still in my clothes that I hadn't bothered to take off, and saw that it was nearly five in the morning. The sun would be up soon, and I felt as if I _had _just fallen to my death of that waterfall. My head ached, my eyes were on fire and my stomach lurched. I knew how I would spend this day. Locked away from all prying eyes. Uneasily, I made my way to my room, removed my jacket and boots, and buried my face in my pillow. It was an effort to both stop my head from pulsating and thinking.

When I awoke again, the watery burn of my eyes and the dry pounding of my temples had ceased, and I could judge by the length of shadows of the smouldering lamp that that other night had passed, replaced by another.

My throat had taken on the consistency of tar, and tasted about as such. I couldn't remember when last I had been this intoxicated, or at all, in retrospect. The bleary amber-coloured memories of that faithful day in September seemed to resonate, but that was more an exhaustive weariness that anything. Not at all like this. Tolerance for whiskey ran in my blood, and drunkenness did not usually come easily.

Certainly never so easily as last night.

I sloppily grabbed for the pitcher kept on my dresser, sucking lukewarm water from my hand. The taste lessoned somewhat, as did the sludgy build-up of mucus, but enough remained that I could not hope the whole thing was some sort of vivid dream. Everything-from Abigail to my brief intimacy with Holmes; from my stupid and hormonal actions at the brothel to that horrid realisation…and then at last all but telling Holmes that I felt something for him…

_My love is not like most mens…_

Just then, I saw as my door slowly opened with a low moan. For a second, I felt a panic-irrational as it may have been-but soon saw that it was not my nightmares realised, but in fact only about three-feet tall. I pulled my hand away from the night table where my sidearm was kept. The shadow stepped into what little light there was, and Josh, with a tousle-headed and possessed expression walked in.

I had never seen him look as such. I thought that he must be sleep-walking at first. Certainly he did not look…well, frankly, normal. "Josh?" I asked. "What are you…is something wrong, son?"

He made no moves to respond, just stood there clutching his stuffed dog, staring at me with wide blue eyes.

"Josh?"

Nothing.

"What is it, darling?" I grabbed his arm, and immediately he reacted. By nearly jumping out of his skin. He reacted as if my touch had burned him, skittering backward against the door, slamming it shut. But then he seemed to shake his head slightly to the side, and recover himself. He looked at me, but did not stare blankly and crazily. If anything, he just looked confused. "Papa?" He asked. "What are you doing here?"

"I? You're in my room, son. Do you feel alright?"

He shrugged. "I think so. But the last thing I remember I was playing with a big dog…it was a black mastiff and had teeth. Big teeth, more like a monster than a mastiff dog. He was about to bite me, but I wasn't scared because Mummy was there. She scared it away."

"You saw your mother?" I interrupted. He wasn't the only one.

"Yes."

"What did she say to you?" I asked, although I feared his answer for some reason.

"She said…she said…oh, I can't remember!" He began to cry, and I picked him up into my lap on the bed.

"There, there, darling. It's nothing to cry over."

"But it was important! What Mummy said was important!"

"I'm sure that it was, but you needn't get so upset over it. It was only a dream."

"But it wasn't!"

I stared down at him. "What do you mean?"

"I _saw _her, Papa. She was _there. _In my _room_."

"Oh, Josh…my dear boy, I'm sure you wanted her to be, but you were just dreaming."

"I was not!"

"Don't contradict me. Now, you're exhausted. Lay down here, and try and go back to sleep."

"Will you tell me a story?"

"Oh, son, I don't believe I can think of any stories just now…"

"Please? Tell me the one about you and Uncle and the monster-dog."

"I do think you've had enough of 'monster-dogs' for one night."

"Then…tell me about when I was born."

"When you were born? Why should you want to hear about that?"

"Because I like to hear stories about _me_."

I laughed. "Alright, then. Under the covers, and close your eyes. Let's see. The day you were born. It seems to me it was some day in October…a few years ago, hmm…"

"Papa! You know what day it was!"

"Ah, you're right, I do! I had gone out to watch a football match that day, and Kensington triumphed in the end…"

"Papa!"

I smiled. "I was only joshing with you. Of course I know that day. I shall never forget it."

"Joshing. Like my name."

"It is entirely appropriate. But anyway…it was a chilly day, as I recall it. I couldn't see your mother of course…"

"Why not?"

"Well…we'll get into that some other day. When you're a bit older. But anyhow, you arrived in the evening, around supper time. Which is ironic because since that moment you have been eating constantly. Your mother liked to say that was the way the two of us were most alike." Josh giggled and I continued. "You were small and pink and bald…"

"So I looked somewhat like a mole rat?"

"Wherever did you see a mole rat?"

"At the zoo with Uncle. They are African rodents that eat roots and live in groups with a queen that rules them. And they are small and pink and bald."

"Ah, I see. Well, at first you looked like that. But you got bigger very quickly and grew hair almost immediately. You looked very much like your mother. At first, all you did was cry…and eat. Every time I would go into the nursery to see you, you were crying. But your mother, and the nurse as well, had the patience of a saint, and soon you grew out of it."

"Go back to the day I was born."

"Yes, yes, the day you were born. Well, as soon as I could, I came to see you and your mother. You were all wrapped up but I remember that I hadn't been so proud in my life. I had so wanted a son. And now I had one. Your mother, bless her, said that she didn't think I would ever be that happy again."

"That's it!"

"What?"

He beamed magnificently. "I remember now! When I saw Mummy tonight, she said that she was so proud of me. And she said that I was to tell you that she wanted you to be happy again. And to stop…"

"Stop…what?" I asked in a whisper.

"I think…it was…"

"Josh, stop this! Your mother is dead! We both miss her, but…"

"I'm sorry, Papa, but I did see her tonight." He yawned loudly and shoved several fingers in his mouth as arranged his head against the pillow. "It was something about a den…"

"A den? Den…_denile?_"

"Yes, that was it…"

I jumped out of bed. "But how…how could you know something like that? How could you even make something like that up?" But then I remembered my vision in hospital, the very same vision that I had remembered tonight at her grave sight. It was…impossible. Yet, I couldn't deny it. Apparently, I couldn't deny anything anymore. _Have faith, _as Mary often liked to tell me. Hers was always so much more concrete than my own.

"What's wrong, Papa? Did I say something bad?" Josh asked, although he was nearly asleep now.

"No…no, darling. It isn't you at all. Close your eyes, and go to sleep."

He did without so much as a protest. As for myself, I collapsed into a chair and stared breathlessly at him as he slept. The clock in the hallway chimed the hour-eleven-, then the half-hour and then midnight.

Finally, sometime just after that hour that signalled the new day, I rose to my feet. As silently as I have walked before, I shut Josh into my room, and made my way down the stairs. Holmes' chamber door was shut as usual, but I knew that he did not lock it. Without even so much as knocking, I opened it, and stepped in.

I bolted it from the other side.

_Okay, I know…I'm evil. It's fun to be evil. Also, I have to apologise now because I have finals this week and the next so it may be awhile for the next chapter. I'm really sorry. I'll get it out as fast as I can._

1 Ave Maria Alley-one of London's many places of prostitution

2 In the household or outside of it, that is

3 Virgin

4 head of a tavern

5Julius Caesar 1:2:46


	16. Chapter 16

_Happy Holidays to everyone! Since so many of you asked for this for Christmas, I feel obliged to give…besides, you guys are all so great. So, enjoy…_

_I bolted the door from the inside._

I set the key on his bureau, and looked around. It was dark, but not pitch black; Holmes kept the lamp low, reflecting off the pictures of some of the most famous, or rather infamous, criminals. I recognised Jack Sheppard, the great sensationalised thief. Thomas Wise was amongst the murderers. And, of course, a certain mathematics professor. How he could sleep in such a room I had not an idea, but he surrounded himself with these vile creatures as if they were his family.

He lay stretched out on his bed with only his boots and jacket removed. A cigarette glowed between his lips. He was like a cat. Able to relax his body to a state of recuperative sleep whilst not allowing his mind to shut down in the least.

With almost animal-like reflexes, his eyes jutted open. He seemed to be both surprised to see me and having expecting me. Sitting upright, he took a final drag on his cigarette before discarding it in a half-full water glass. He made no pretences at shock for which I was grateful. Rather, he spoke directly to the point.

"You are on a dangerous path, my dear doctor." His eyes flashed to the bolted door. "One I'm not sure you can sidetrack from once you start down it."

My eyebrows rose up. "You surprise me, Holmes. Shouldn't I be saying such a thing?"

"Watson," said he in a low voice. "You have my entire heart, and you know this, for what it is worth. But what my body is willing to risk and what my mind _tells _me I will risk are two very different things."

I was completely taken aback. I actually fell a few paces until I was against the door. "What are you saying, then? You do not want to be with me?"

I said it for the first time without embarrassment or shock.

He sighed deeply. "Come and sit with me." When I was next to him on the bed he said, "I want nothing more. But what one man desires in the scheme of things matters little, does it not? The fact remains that both you and I know what we risk by our actions. I am not saying that I am unwilling to take the danger. But if I do, I must know that you are here with the most rational of minds and purest of hearts. Nothing else will suffice."

"You doubt my intentions?" It seemed somehow astonishing and hilarious at the same time. I felt like I was preying on some poor innocent bonny young thing trying to flee from an overzealous suitor.

"Forgive me, yes."

"But"-

"Come now, my dear friend. A mere 24 hours ago you were lost in a hazy cloud of scotch-whiskey. Just a few hours previous to that, you bolted from me after a mere trifle of intimacy. Can you honestly say that you are ready for something more?"

"Of course I cannot! Who could possibly be so brazen as to suggest they are ready to stick out there neck in such a fashion? A fool, perhaps."

He couldn't help but me flash me his infamous grin before his face returned to all seriousness. "And are you fool?" He asked, pressing his hand on top of my own.

"Oh, yes," I nodded. "Most certainly I am. A fool who has lost all sight and reason. I knew. Oh, Holmes, I knew long ago. Years, even. At Reichenbach the first time. It was _then _that I knew of my love for you. Before you came back, before you had confessed to me. I knew that moment standing there on that rock and watching the torrent of the falls beat down. I knew because I felt…"

"Yes?" He whispered.

"I felt that I had _died_ right along with you."

He had been facing me, but now rose to his feet and turned away at those words. A strange noise, similar to a whimper escaped the back of his throat before he could clear it, and compose himself once again. His arms folded as he stood addressing the wall, clearly not able to look me in the eye at that moment. "You put me in an awful position, my dear Watson. You see, as much as I want to believe you, it is my conviction that you are here because you feel obligated to do so."

"What?!"

"God, man, I don't _want_ to think it!" He spun around now, and tried to reach for my arm, but I held it back. Taking a deep breath, I saw his hands contort into fists. It was not the first time, nor certainly the last that I would bare witness to the never-ending battle between his heart and mind. "But I must face the facts! You are grateful that I saved you-us-Josh as well, from whatever horrors your sister would have subjected us to. I know that you are. You are grateful that I convinced you of your lack of…involvement in the death of your wife. That is why you…kissed me. One line leads through another, doctor! I protected you these last two days and now you wish to repay me!"

I could only stare at him in disbelief. Now, you know it when I say that I have seen some showings of immense egotism over the years with this man. I never blamed him for it, or if I did, it was only a mild rebuking, but at this moment, I was utterly flabbergasted. How could anyone have as much nerve as this? "My God, Holmes," I said when at last I had recovered my voice. "I will admit that I have known you to be arrogant, but this really is too much. I would say 'how dare you', but that just does not even begin to express my opinion on this. To think…to think that you could have the…audacity to proclaim that I would…_offer _myself to you as some sort of repayment…well…_it damn near disgusts me that you would even suggest it_!" My hand was on the door now, fumbling with it. I had to get out of there. To even have looked at him would have caused me to do something that I knew I would latter regret. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps this was not love in my heart for him at all. After all, who could love such a man as this?

My hands were shaking so that I barely managed to insert the key in the lock. I had just opened the handle when I felt his hand. "Holmes," I said in my calmest voice. "Kindly remove your hand from my shoulder, or I will be compelled to _remove it for you_!"

"No, I cannot."

"Holmes. I am not going to tell you again…"

"Watson, please…"

I opened the door wider. "Please, what?!"

"_Please don't leave me!"_

I froze in an instant. "What?" I whispered, slowly turning around. "What did you say?"

But the look upon his face was as shocked as my own. I honestly think that he had no intention of saying what he had just said. His jaw had fallen. _He _had fallen. At that moment, he was no more Sherlock Holmes than I was. In fact, he looked to me no more than Josh, a small child in need of comfort. In an instant, I had lost all reason to be angry with him; all emotions except those that governed the love I had for him. "Holmes…I'm," said I, reaching out for him. "I'm here…"

But the sudden realisation had hit him. The realisation of the weakness he had just shown, more human than ever I had seen him, more than he ever intended anyone to see no doubt. Even me. "Leave me," he said in whisper.

"My dear Holmes…"

"No! Just…leave me." He moved backward slowly, gripped the post of the bed with one hand before he lowered himself onto it. With the other, he clenched at his side. He seemed to feel sick to his stomach. I wanted so at that moment to go to him. Instead, I just stood there, in the doorway, watching. It lasted for some minutes, the space between us mere feet that seemed like miles. At last my friend looked up, a heavy and exhausted look in his eyes. "I beg of you, please leave me alone." His voice was hollow and empty.

I started to protest again, but the words were lost in my throat. And so against my judgment, I gave a brief nod and stepped out. The door closed behind me. As I went up to my own chamber, the bleakness of night seemed to fill me. I felt as though my relationship with the man was truly over before it had even began.

I could hardly sleep that night and spent most of it lying under my blankets and starring at the black ceiling.

-_Please don't leave me!-_

Shortly after the clock struck the hour five, I decided the battle was futile and rose to take a bath. I hoped that I may erase all traces of my shameful night abusing my body with alcohol. I scrubbed until my skin was red, but try as I might I still felt horribly soiled. Despite the fact there was no excuse for Holmes' atrocious behaviour, I couldn't help but feel that I had abused him as well. I should have insisted on staying. He hadn't wanted me to leave any more than I had wanted to go. Yet I knew why he had done it. The only wall that remained between us was one of misplaced fear. Feelings, our friendship and partnership, propriety, the law even…those stumbling-blocks would no longer be enough to stop us. Only the fear of exposing our entire souls to each other.

And I could simply not say how that would be remedied. It would take a sudden burst of feeling from the both of us to knock that final barrier down. A final burst of emotion when no longer we could deny ourselves.

With a long sigh, I dressed in the early light of an April down. The sky was red and through my window I saw the thin sheet of fog rolling in off the Thames. The market vendors would be up and about already, and I watched the street sweeper pass by our flat followed by a group of Street Arabs with long handled brooms.

I felt like a man cursed. Cursed by God or some other such creature to love another I was not permitted to. It was a terrible whim of nature to give a man to another, to grow to care about and love him with an almost furious intensity only to be scoffed about in the face of reality with the cruel jest that this love was unnatural, illegal even.

Well, I can tell you that at that moment I felt a bravery and a disregard for my country that never have I known nor felt since. Be damned them! Be damned the law and be damned what it said we were committing. I was an adult and he was an adult and we were hurting no one. He needed me, and I he. I was determined to see that those needs were fulfilled. And I knew what the first step to this was.

I descended the staircase, feeling the emptiness of the house for perhaps the first time. Not even Mrs. Hudson rose this early anymore. But I knew someone that would have already stirred.

The ride to Kensington was totally without incident. I actually enjoyed the scenery of the area I'd only recently ceased calling home. But I must admit to some trepidation. The reasoning of it all was perfectly clear and logical in my own mind, but I feared it would be less so for James Parks.

He was just opening and was engaged with no patient. Upon seeing me, he gave a shout and shook me warmly by the hand, something I returned whole-heartedly. We had had little communication since last winter, and I knew he was surprised to see me.

"How are you, my dear fellow? I had almost given up hope as to your return. Patients have been asking what became of you, you know."

"Forgive me, Parks. I have been utterly horrid to you. Really, I should have communicated better. However, much has happened."

I began to fill him in on the happenings of my life of late, mostly concentrating on my newest wound, and what I referred to only as 'a spot of legal trouble,' to explain my extended absence. I certainly made no mention of my sister.

Parks lit two of his finest cigarettes and handing one to me, he sat with a pensive look on his face. He seemed genuinely moved and concerned when I got round to being shot, and did give a start of surprise. "Good Lord!"

"Oh, it wasn't as bad as all that. Once a fellow suffers through two such wounds, a third is hardly worth writing home about."

Parks laughed. "If I had known all that, I would have closed up shop for a day to come visit you. But as it is, we have been rather busy."

"I'm sorry, Parks," said I. "Truly."

"Tosh…however, there is one fellow that came by I did wish to discuss with you."

"What symptoms?"

"No, no…not a patient, old man. This fellow, a French fellow, I gather, was looking to buy this place." Parks looked round, avoiding my gaze, and I knew that the offer must have been quite lucrative.

"What exactly did he say?"

"Well, of course, I explained that I was merely assistant to you, and could make no decisions. But he left his card." He reached out and plucked a calling card from obscurity in a side-drawer and handed it to me. "He did seem somewhat eager, mind, but very generous, as you can see. And he agreed that I should stay on myself as assistant with a quarter profit. I told him I doubted you would agree. This was your livelihood after all, but…"

I could have passed out when I saw the amount printed on the reverse of the card. It was twice as much as I would have hoped to get, and that was being wishful as it was. "My God, James," I mused. "Are you sure this is correct? His pen didn't slip, did it?"

"Ha, ha! My reaction exactly, my dear fellow. It is right, though, I swear to it."

The name upon the card was Jean-Francois Vernet, MD. There was no address, a fact I found curious. But that was not the only thing that was curious. Vernet.

"_My own singular gift for deduction may have come from my grandmother, who was a sister of the French artist Vernet…"_

I didn't know whether to smile or frown, laugh or scream at this. The connection had to be there. I wasn't as adverse to the idea of coincidence as my dear friend, but this was too much of one for me. True as it was that we had not discussed the idea of me selling my practise since that day that the case of Black Bishop had begun, but I was certain that it was an idea that he had not given up on. Holmes did not drop such things easily. I couldn't help but feel annoyed at his going behind my back as he did, but at the same time, how could I really be angry? It was his own queer way of showing me how much he valued my partnership. And how much he really did need me, something I was sure that he would never be able to relate to me in person. "I think, James," I said at last to my old assistant. "That this offer is truly too good to pass up. Surely you agree?"

"Well…" he hesitated, rising to his feet. Clearly he did, but did not want to seem rash or offensive by agreeing with me. Parks was a gentleman in every respect.

"You mustn't be afraid of offending me. I wish to hear your true opinion of this."

"I admit, it is quite literally a dream come true. This fellow was getting along in years and he said that if he was pleased with my work he would not hesitate to give me the place in a few years when he is ready to retire. And the profit that we shall make-you especially, at the sale-is enormous. More than enough for you to invest in another. Why, you could afford a practise on Harley Street with this if you played your cards right!"

I chuckled. "Yes, I suppose so. But in truth, James, I desire no such thing. As a matter of fact, I think that I shall retire from public practise and devote my time to my writing and to assisting Sherlock Holmes. I will make myself available as a consultant to the police force as I do have quite a bit of experience as a police surgeon, but that will be all."

Parks stared at me with a wide-eyed glare as if I had sudden transformed into an insect. He began to shake his head slightly, clenching his hands behind his back. "Surely you are not serious," he mused.

"Absolutely."

"But…but my God, John! Have you gone off your nut? Do you care nothing for your reputation anymore? Don't you know what people will say and think about such a suggestive move?"

A few months previous, this conversation would have infuriated me. In fact, a few months previous, it seemed to me that we had _had _this very conversation, or one much like it. Parks then had thought it wise to inform me that I was the subject of some gossip because I had once again agreed to share rooms with Sherlock Holmes. It was already speculated, although certainly not discussed in anything but a few whispers, that if a fellow did not fancy women, he must certainly be one of the those unfortunates drawn to men. The only thing I think that had saved the two of us was my marriage and Holmes' singular nature. I thanked to God that I had made him out in my writings to be machinelike and emotionless. Holmes could be seen by most to be one of those rare beings so wrapt up by his profession that he could not make time for love and family. Oh, if only they knew…

"This is my life, James," I said with some authority. "My life to do with what I think is right."

"But John! Without your reputation and honour, what sort of life will you really have? Now, hear me as a friend, _your _friend, because that is what I am. It is bad enough that after you were widowed you went back to that queer old duck, but to quit your very career to spend more time with him…well surely I do not need to draw the lines for you!"

"You will draw the lines whether I permit you to or not!" I bellowed, slamming my fist into the nearest object, which happened to be the arm of the chair I had just leapt from.

"Bloody Hell, John!" He exclaimed, and then glanced around as if we were being watched, and lowered his voice. He reached out for my arm, and squeezed it to emphasize his point. In a high whisper, he said, "I certainly want to do no such thing. You have been nothing but good to me, and I owe much to you. That is why I am trying to help you…"

I pulled away. "Parks, if you are trying to help me as you say, then you will lend me your support in this. Now, I will contact this Vernet fellow and close the deal, and we will all be the better for it. In return for that, and everything else I have seen fit to do for you, you will not lend support to these unfounded rumours and slanders. Is that a fair enough bargain, James?"

"You know I would _never _say anything against you!"

"And Sherlock Holmes?"

His actions answered that one for me. Clearing his throat, his dropped my gaze and suddenly became very interested in staring at a portrait of our Queen on the opposite wall.

"I see."

"Watson"-

"You know, James, that I think you to be an exceptional doctor," I said after a moment. "And there are certain gifts that an exceptional doctor must have. Intelligence, patience, the will and the drive to help his fellow man. And vision. To see the world for how it truly is. I admit it myself that sometimes I see the world in shades of grey. It is not easy, not in the least, to change oneself, ones point of view, as it were…"

"What exactly is your point?" Asked Parks, looking as though I'd quite taken leave of my senses.

"My point is that I think you have lost your vision. You, and all the others who would mock and whisper about this man, are simply blind. You see what you want to see, and close your eyes to everything else."

"For Heaven's sake, man, I think that it is you who needs to open his eyes as to this…_man_."

I stared at him, picking up my hat. "I already have. And I see his faults. They are just covered up by his greatness."

"But he is forcing you to act insane-out of your mind!"

"No, James," I said turning to him. "Because of Sherlock Holmes, I _have _a sane mind."

And I realised at that moment how much I had just laid on the line. Parks had said that he would never start anything about me, and I believed him. But I could see now in colour; see the entire world that surrounded me. And for the first time in seven months, I felt as though I was no longer Atlas. The weight of the world was not crushing me.

I was free.

I found my son in the kitchen 'helping' Mrs. Hudson kneed bread dough, so much as a three and a half year old can, I imagine. He had the mind of another Kant or Aristotle, yet he was still as child-like as was possible in every other respect. The chubby little fingers punched at the dough, but he lacked the strength or skill to do a real job of it. Not like our dear landlady whose fingers flew, making short work of it. I smelled the first loaves already rising, a delightful smell that could have drawn in every one of the four million habitants to our door.

"Halloa!" I greeted the two, kissing them both on their cheeks. "Good morning! You two must have certainly been up to greet the sun this day!"

"Why, it seems we aren't the only ones, doctor," replied my landlady. "With both you and Mr. Holmes up and out the house before I could even get the fire lit."

"Mr. Holmes? You mean he isn't here?"

"We were supposed to play with an al-koid, but when I went to Uncle's room, he was already gone," said Josh.

"You were supposed to play with a what?"

"An al-koid. To see if we could make it positive. A positive reaction," He replied with a beaming grin that showed how proud he was that he'd been able to pronounce it.

"I think…I think that you mean 'alkaloid,' darling," said I with a laugh. "But that's alright. You and I are to spend this day together."

"We are?" His eyes lit up.

"Indeed. Now run along and get dressed!"

I spent that day with my son trying to relieve some of the guilt that I felt for being so absent of late. It was a rather warm day considering the last ones. I took Josh about the city, first to the British Museum and then to Hyde Park where we both ate apples from a vendor. There were, of course, other children milling about, running and screaming as children do, being yelled at by frenzied looking mothers and nurses, but Josh showed no interest in them whatsoever. He held my hand and was either silent while appearing to observe every twig and leaf we passed, or would ask me a barrage of strange questions that I had a dickens of a time answering. Questions that ranged from the species of certain exhibits to the acreage of the park. He was spending too much time around Holmes. That thought made me both smile and cringe at the same time.

He was so eager and willing, so brilliant and naïve at the same time. But as he skipped along gripping my hand, how could I view him as anything but perfect?

However, try as I might, it was hard to keep my mind in the here and now. I kept drifting to my encounters-with first Holmes and then Parks. Holmes doubted that I was acting with a rational mind. Parks did too, although in a different way. Was I? Was I acting irrationally? I didn't think so, but then it is hard to judge one's own actions. And unfortunately, this was one of those situations where there was no one that I could turn to. No one unbiased that I could ask for a third opinion. Except…

"Josh," said I, calling him over to the park bench I had collapsed into. "Come over here a second."

He dropped the stick he had been waving about like a sword and ran over. "Yes?"

"I want…I want to…er, tell you a story."

His eyes lit up. "I love stories!"

"Yes, I know…"

"Am I in this story?"

"No, this is fictional…"

"You mean it's pretend?"

"Yes, now listen, because I may want your opinion."

"On what, Papa?"

"Just…just listen, boy. Once upon a time there was a man and…and a woman."

"But 'once upon a time' stories never have men and women! They are always kings and queens and princes and princesses!"

"Alright, then, alright…it was a king and a queen. And the king was a great man, except that he had a problem. He was in love with a…a queen."

"Why is that a problem?" Josh asked, kicking the ground with his shoes.

"It was a problem because the king was not allowed to _be _in love with this particular queen. H…she was already married."

"Then why did the King love her?"

"Oh…my dear Josh, you cannot control who you fall in love with. It's one of those things that just happen…well, I suppose you shall find out that when you are older. But anyway, the king was in love with this queen, even though the law said that he couldn't be."

"But Papa! He was the king! Why didn't he just change the law?"

I was taken aback. That was what I deserved for trying to pull the wool over the eyes of a prodigious world wonder. I smiled. "Well, I suppose that he could have changed the law. But that would have lessoned him in the eyes of his subjects. And this king cared about how he looked to his subjects. But one day, the queen came to him. She confessed that she too, was in love with the king, despite the fact that he…_she _was still married. But if they acted on their love, er, that is, if they decided to live together than they could have been in a lot of trouble. Because even kings and queens can be struck off the thrown. They didn't want to get in trouble, but they loved each other a lot."

"So what did they do?"

"Well…they ran off together. To go somewhere where they didn't have to worry about their love being illegal."

"You mean the king ab-ab-dic-ated?"

"How do you know a word like abdicated? Never mind…yes, the king did abdicate. He was forced to give up a lot for this m…the queen that he loved. As was she. But sometimes you are forced to make sacrifices. When you love someone that much, I mean."

Josh thought this over. "But what about the other king?"

"What other king?"

"The queen's husband. You said that she was married. If she were married, that means there had to be another king. She left him all alone because she wanted to live with the other king?"

"Yes, yes, I suppose she did."

He shook his head. "But that's not nice. He was probably sad that the queen left and wouldn't be there no more. You shouldn't be allowed to hurt people that you love, even if you love someone else. Don't you think so, Papa?"

I swallowed some nasty tasting air. This was a mistake. The boy was far too perceptive, even though I was sure that he was not connecting anything to me personally. Still, I didn't like how much he appreciated the whole thing. I sighed, and patted him on the head. "I think, Josh, that you are far beyond me."

He grinned and hopped to his feet. "That was a pretty dull story, Papa. I think that you can do better." He took my hand and led me toward Baker Street.

That night, a little earlier than usual, I tucked my son into bed. We were both tired, me especially. I had gotten little sleep the previous night and was eager to have a lie-down. Holmes was still no where to be seen. I was starting to be concerned, although I knew that in the past he routinely disappeared without trace. But this day…well, I shouldn't think that it was a case that would take him for the entire day without a word to me. So what was it?

I didn't care to think on the alternative.

"Papa?" Josh said, as I lowered the gas.

"Yes?"

"Do you 'member last night when we were talking about Mummy?"

"Yes…"

"What does den.._denial _mean?"

"Denial? Why…why denial," said I. "Denial is what I have been living in, and what I shall have to keep doing, I am afraid."

"Huh?"

I smiled. "Never mind. Go to sleep. Say your prayers, first."

"Papa?"

"What is it?"

"Can every day be like today?"

I scoffed, remembering how this day had started. Just after midnight. "No, son. I should hope that every day will not be like today."

"Why?"

"Just…get yourself to sleep." I shut him into his room, but had a second-thought. "Josh…also, er…You know that I love you, don't you?"

"Of course I do…you have to. You're my Papa."

"Alright then. Just…don't forget it, eh?"

"Okay." He smiled at me in the dark and obediently shut his eyes.

I returned the smile and shut the door. And then jumped out of my skin when I hand was placed on my shoulder.

"Good Lord, Holmes! My nerves are not healthy as it is! Must you make them worse?"

I looked at him and gasped. His clothes were a wreck and he looked as though he hadn't slept in days. There were heavy circles around his eyes and his skin was more flushed then usual. He could hardly stand erect. The only time I saw him worse was the case of Culverton Smith, when he thought it best to make me (and he) believe that he was dying. Then it had been acting and costume. Now it was real.

"What in blazes has happened? You are quite a sight."

"Am I?" He asked innocently. "Well, I suppose that when one has not slept in three nights or so, this is the result."

I was stunned. I knew that his habits were irregular, but to have not slept in _three _entire nights was too much. I must have been to wrapt up in my own affairs to have noticed. "Why on Earth haven't you slept? You don't have some case that you have neglected to tell me about, have you?"

He actually smiled, however briefly. "Yes, I do. The most important one of my career. It is one though, I fear, your readers will not be able to hear about. The case is Sherlock Holmes verses John Watson. It is quite a case at that, too, doctor."

Smiling, I took his arm. "Come, my friend. Come and I shall love to hear all about it. I shall draw you a bath and you can regale me."

"You needn't do that, Watson."

"I needn't do a lot of things when it comes to you, Holmes. Yet I do, and I shall keep on doing them. Now, come along." He allowed me to lead him down from Josh's attic nursery to his bathroom just off his chamber.

I ran the water while he sat on the privy, talking. "Three days is actually not much of a hardship for me. My record is seven, although I will confess that I was somewhat younger then. These three at one time would have been nothing. But of course, I prefer it when it is a case that is wracking my mind…and not something…something so much more personal."

"You are going to have a bath and go right to sleep. And tomorrow, you are going to eat three complete meals. And a meal does not consist of tobacco and alcohol, Holmes."

He snorted. "Really, Watson, you would think that I was a child the way you treat me sometimes."

"Then don't act like it. I have one, and I needn't two, I can assure you. I insist that you take better care of yourself." I reached out for his tie, but he pushed my hand away, his eyes alight briefly.

"I _can_ undress myself, thank you."

And he did: necktie, collar, shirt, boots, stockings, trousers and underclothes. I had seen him nude from the neck up, but never completely so. As a physician, I shouldn't have felt…anything, embarrassment or something more natural, yet I did seeing him standing there as bare as the day he was born. I do not find it necessary to comment on the particulars of his anatomy other than to say that he was a fine specimen-smooth and muscular, a little thin, but far from gaunt. Like a well-polished stone made perfectly smooth by thousands of years of river water. It was a body that I would have liked to simply look out and appreciate, as one does with beautiful works of art, such at the sculptures of the great Renaissance masters. Our eyes met briefly and I think that much was said without words there. A boundary had been crossed: quickly and without comment. That path that Holmes had warned the both of us of had been started down.

My friend climbed into the water and settled against the ledge with a sigh. "Ahh…delicious, Watson. There is nothing so relaxing as a hot bath."

I cleared my throat. "Do you wish me to leave?"

"Of course not. I need to speak with you."

"What about?"

He sighed, seemingly in disappointment. "Surely you must have at least a guess? Use the logical part of your mind."

"My dear Holmes," said I, settling onto the floor just behind him, so close that I could have reached up to stroke his neck. "After these last days, it is a wonder I can think at all, let alone be deductive. I shall assume that you wish to talk about what happened last night."

"Yes…and no. Watson, forgive me. I was wrong to throw you out such as I did. And very wrong for suggesting that you came to me in any manner…that was unworthy of you. The whole thing was unworthy of you. I should have known…"

"But you had no way of knowing." I raised myself to my knees, and our heads were level.

"Watson," he said in a whisper. "I…I hate to admit it, but I followed you this morning."

"You what?!"

"Yes. I heard you rise, and was afraid…" he paused to clear his throat. "I feared that you would do something rash. So I followed you."

"But I saw nothing!"

He flashed me a grin that I was compelled to return. "That is what you can expect to see when I follow you," said Holmes. That was not the first time I had heard that line.

"Alright, alright, but why? You surely do not think that I was _that_ upset by what happened?"

"Oh, my dear friend, I cannot say why for sure I did such a thing. But…but I am compelled to admit that I am very glad that I did."

"Why is that?" I whispered.

"I pretended to be a patient, and your old assistant's secretary allowed me to wait just outside the consulting room door. By cracking the door slightly I was able to hear your entire conversation. You…you defended me to Parks. What you said…it _did _mean a lot…oh, what am I saying? _Why_, Watson? Why did you do it? I realise that it was from your heart, but do you not realise how much you risked by saying such things. You shouldn't…have risked that for me. I'm not worth all that, truly Watson, I am not."

"You're a fool."

"I _beg_ your pardon?"

"For God's sake Holmes! I didn't risk it for you!"

His eyes seemed to widen slightly. "Who, then?"

In a sudden move that surprised even me, I dunked my hand into the water up to the sleeve, and pulled out his hand. I held it there, trapped between my own, and looked into his grey closely and seriously. "Us, Holmes," I said. "I risked it for us."

He sat up so suddenly he nearly sent water cascading over the rim of the bathtub. His head shaking slightly, he digested all that this meant, all that he could not allow himself to believe the last night. And then, when at last he did, he reached out for me with one dripping hand. Seizing my neck, he pulled me to him. He was shaking and I, too, felt my pulse leap forward, nearly out of my body. He was wet and it was awkward as our lips met, hardly an ideal situation that I would have preferred our first, well, second kiss to be. It felt more like when I was a boy and grabbed on the school lot by this freckled girl and kissed hard on the lips. I had never been more embarrassed…and yet captivated at the same time. My first kiss.

As was this, in a way.

Parting my mouth, I allowed my tongue to slip out, but it lasted only a few seconds, until Holmes realised what was happening, and happening fast at that, and pulled back. He looked at me with a slack jaw and unfulfilled lust blazing in every facet of his being.

For one second-exactly one second-we both hesitated. But than that second burst, and we grabbed for each other.

The next several minutes seemed to me like an explosion of sight, sounds, tastes, smells and feelings. The clock chimed the hour, some hour anyway, and I was jerking Holmes from the tub. He was dripping wet and we both nearly slipped as we somehow made it into the bedroom. Neither us of were thinking, simply acting without any thought to our actions. Holmes pinned me on his bed, but wet as he was, it was like trying to grip butter. My clothes were soon as wet as he was, but with him on me, I couldn't have gotten them off if I tried. It was the messiest, most unromantic, carnal and lustful lovemaking that I have ever been a part of.

He bore into me with his mouth, so hard that it nearly hurt, but he would not let me pull back. His tongue was furious against the back of my throat, his lips rough, his face coarse from being unshaven, his groans deep and guttural. I could not have pretended that he was a woman even if I had the most vivid imagination in existence.

I wasn't used to fighting with someone for dominance, particularly someone whose strength equalled my own. But somehow despite his insistence, I managed to shove hard on his shoulders and we flip-flopped positions with a thud against the mattress. I was certainly more used to being on top, and I flattened him with my body into the bed. He grabbed at my overcoat and all but ripped it from my body in his attempt to remove it. With as much respect for the clothing as I could manage, I used one hand to hold him down and the other to strip myself of my tie and shirt, feeling two buttons pop as I did. I didn't even bother with my pants. I yanked the fly open and that was enough.

The water increased the temperature between our bare skins, which seemed to me to already be boiling. He was digging into me and I reached down to his groin, a move that made him shudder and grasp me tighter.

The path was suddenly rushing toward us. There was no getting off it now.

My mind stalled and turned to all red. It was a mess of limbs and hands and kisses that burned and was both fire and ice…I breathed in his wet smell of soap, tasted the flame of his breath that transferred somehow to my groin. I was mostly naked now and together we were like animals in our persistence. He grabbed me hard and I nearly screamed; only his hand over my mouth stopped me. I cannot even rationalise the thing; how it was accomplished, but however it was, it was done quick and hard.

Holmes finished first, his seed spraying my belly and his hand at that second reaching up to grab at my throat, something to hold on to. He buried his head into my shoulder, roaring like a beast being devoured by its prey. Desperate in my own need now, I grabbed him by his hair and pulled him back to face me. For a second our eyes met, but we had yet to reach the point of speech. Still gasping for breath himself, he reached down on me hard with his long and nimble fingers. I growled and dug myself into him, nearly choking into his mouth as a few seconds later I passed the point of reason. The fire surged through my body, bucking into his hand. I swung out hard in my release unconsciously, hitting the pillow, and only barely missing my partner's head. I called to him from my soul but the only sound that came out was a high-pitched cry that squeezed my lungs shut.

And then it was over.

Pulling apart, we both lay on the bed that was hardly big enough for two men. Neither of us had returned to breathing normally, and for the longest time neither of us spoke. I won't speak for Holmes, but I was fairly certain that when we imagined this night (if we did), we did not imagine it like this. For myself, I was only able to imagine slow and methodical lovemaking, such as how it had been with my wife. Even in those days with other women, there was a certain amount of beauty to it. This had been anything but. It was strong, heavy, desperate and unplanned. It just happened. We hadn't taken our time; we hadn't taken the time to whisper to each other, to give pleasure and to discover what the other liked. It was like a merciless, greedy fight, each of us frantic and distressed, desperate for this to a point of insanity. After all these months, all these _years _even, we had not been able to hold back.

At last Holmes turned to me and I saw in his eyes that he was thinking much the same thing as I. When he spoke, his voice was heavy and shaky. "Are…are you angry with me?"

"Whatever for?" He just looked at me with a rebuking expression. "Alright, I admit, Holmes, that it wasn't exactly how I imagined. It just sort of…happened."

He rose to his feet, still completely naked in the cracks of light that bathed down on him and shaking that was discernable despite the darkness. "My dear Watson," he said. "There was something that I should have told you before this had even begun."

"And that is?"

"I had never…done this before."

I laughed. "Come now, Holmes. Was it not obvious I hadn't either?"

"No, no. You misunderstand. I have never been with anyone. Neither man or woman."

I should not have let this surprise me. Had I first thought about it, it should have made complete sense. After all, when one is not moved for intimacy with women, and will not risk the scandal of being so with men until this very second, then what else is there? But still, I could not fathom living for as many years as he had with out ever at least, trying what could be available and his. I hope this does not sound sordid on my part, but we are only human. Despite this bolt from the blue, however, I did not see where as this would change anything. So I gave him a slight shrug of the shoulder and a shake of the head. "You are what you are," said I. "Did you think that it would change my feelings for you?"

"No, but…"

"Come here, my dear friend," I motioned him over to me, and took his hand in my own. "It happened, and we cannot change the fact that it did. What we can change is how we react to it in the future. We were both afraid, I think, or nervous, anxious and worried about what would happen. If we both act uncomfortable about what has already occurred, than it will have all been for naught."

"Yes," said he. "Yes, of course, you are right. I only worry…"

"What?"

"Were you pleased?"

My mouth pulled up. "Immensely."

"And you were not disgusted?"

"Of course not!"

He flashed me his whippish grin and gave a slight nod, as if confirming some scientific finding. "Then it was good, Watson. More than I would ever have dared to dream or imagine."

I nodded, but could think of nothing to say. Seeing the hesitation of my face, he added, "But still something is not right with you?"

"No…well, only…"

"You must tell me, please."

"I shall try…if I can even put it into words. Do you remember telling me that emotion clouds logic? That is why you never sought to be involved with anyone. For fear it would cloud your judgment; block your ability to reason."

"Yes…"

"And since the day I first found that book of yours and read what you wrote in Latin, I allowed my feelings for you to be absorbed by the fear of us being found out. And it isn't so much that I even fear it for myself. I would risk it, but I must think of Josh. What would happen to him…Oh, Holmes, you see what I am getting at, do you not?"

He sighed, and leaned closer to me, as if seeking my protection. Resting an arm on my shoulder, his mouth was just inches from my ear. "I see. Is the risk worth the reward? I think…I think that this is a question that cannot be answered at the present. It requires much thought, and time, of course time. What do you think?"

"I think that it is unfair we have to answer it at all."

"Life is rarely fair, my dear friend. Rarely fair at all. I risk my career, all that I require to keep a sane mind in this mad world, the only thing that I have ever really needed besides you." He smiled. "And you risk the cruel public that you require in your life. Not to mention that boy, your legacy, who is important to the both of us…well?"

"I think," I said. "That I will risk it. But I can make no promises to you."

"Nor I to you. It would be immensely irrational of the man who does. But Watson, you must promise me one thing."

"Or course."

He pulled my head with his hand, forcing me to turn to him. I shall never as long as I live forget that look. It was completely serious, yet utterly terrified at the same time. Never have I seen such a look before. He took a deep breath, trying to decide exactly how he would say it. "If ever there comes a time," he whispered. "That you decide the reward is not worth the risk, you must come to me and tell me. I will not stand for deception or half-hearted attempts at appeasement. If ever there comes a time when I haven't your entire heart, or at least your entire willing heart, you must tell me."

I swallowed, placing my hand on his bare chest, still covered with perspiration. "I hope that such a time never comes."

"As do I. But as we are mere mortal we cannot speak to the future. And this is not easy…it may…" He trailed off and I was very glad to not hear the rest of his thought.

"I promise," said I.

He nodded and squeezed my hand. "Then I do as well."

An hour later, I rose to leave him. We both would have liked nothing more than to engage in a civilised and more loving session, but it was decided that it would have to be saved for another day, when we could arrange it. Although I think that Holmes could have been ready again in a supreme effort of mind over matter, I was not twenty nor even thirty any longer. And I was spent for the night1. We couldn't risk, either, being caught in the morning if we should have happened to oversleep. We had shared everything that two people are capable of sharing, but we could not share a bed.

I gathered my clothes and placed them on my person, but I didn't bother with the various buttons. Holmes chuckled at my shirt, now short two buttons, and I dreaded what lie I should have to tell Mrs. Hudson to explain it.

Hesitating at the door, I turned back round to see him, who had haphazardly thrown on a dressing gown and lay sprawled on his bed with arms folded behind his head. "Good-night, Holmes," I said, mostly because I could not say what truly I wanted to. What was in my heart.

"Sleep well, my friend."

My hand returned to the handle. "Holmes…"

"What is it, Watson?"

"I, er…nothing. Good-night."

"Watson."

I turned. "Yes?"

He was smiling and shaking his head. It was a beautiful sight, that smile. It said everything that I could not. Returning it, I flushed slightly, groaning inwardly at the fact that once again he had known what was inside of me without my having to say it. Words were not needed. I quietly shut his door. Whatever regret remained was washed away by that one look of immense happiness.

I should have thought that I would sleep soundly and completely that night. I was certainly done-in enough to do so. My mind was drenched with all that had happened, and certainly my body had reason to be as well. Instead, all I could do was lay there in the cold, empty darkness of my chamber. I felt so alone. Twice at least I thought to damn it all and return to the place where I was sure that I could relax and sleep, but I did not. Too much had already happened for one night. This was not the time to risk any more.

My mind wandered through every facet of this incredible and shocking night, and I found I could not pinpoint one thing that had been the proverbial straw. After all the frustration, the pain, the fear-there was not one thing that I can say that had broken through that final wall. Uncontrollable lust? Maybe. The fear that if it was not then, it would be never? Equally likely.

Perhaps we had at last reached a perfect understanding where for that short amount of time, he knew everything about me and I he.

But how would this all be in rational light of dawn?

I feared how we would react in the morning. It was one thing to understand and promise each other things in the dark, to lie with each other and feel the empty need within at last filled, but how would all this be when we sat about the sitting room with our pipes, or with some client, or with Josh? Would we have clear enough minds? Would it all be utterly uncomfortable?

Had I thrown away the greatest friendship I ever had known for a love that I was only beginning to understand?

Lord, I hoped not…

Once again, I was forced to abandon all hope of a peaceful lie-in much earlier than I would have cared to. Josh, it seemed, had developed my preference for late rising and I was sure that I could have an hour or two by myself before I would have to face him. It seemed ridiculous for a man to fear his three-year old child, but in his uncanny perceptiveness, I couldn't help but feel trepidation that he would uncover my secret.

However, I would not be granted a leisurely early morning smoke and paper-read. To my very great surprise, when I opened the sitting room door, I found Holmes was already there, sprawled out on the settee with various bits of the _Times_ scattered about him. He held the front page in one hand; a cigarette in the other. The fire was not started, so I knew Mrs. Hudson had yet to rise.

Immediately, I was flooded with all those intense fears of us not being able to speak to each other, or worse yet, regret on his part. I simply couldn't stand it if he regretted it.

"You're up uncharacteristically early," I remarked, as nothing profound would come to me.

He looked up as if he had not heard me enter. And to my relief, he did not appear embarrassed, upset or sullen at my intrusion. In fact, he gave me a brief smile. "I actually slept very soundly for approximately five hours. I feel completely rested. For the first time in quite awhile, I assure you."

"Well, I'm very glad for that."

"You should be, for it's completely your fault."

"How's that?" I asked without thinking. I quickly pretended to be interested in the fruit bowl.

Holmes chuckled softly. "Why, my dear Watson, you are blushing like a school girl. Shouldn't I be the ill at ease one? After all, you did steal my virtue."

" 'Steal,' is it?" I replied with a scoff, swiping the sports column from under a filled glass of pipe plugs.

"What would you call it?"

I would never have thought of a man of Holmes' age as still being completely without experience. But then, he was not like most men, and before I would have assumed that he was either very cautious about not letting me know of his extracurricular activities or that he simply hadn't the needs of the common man. But that was previous to finding out about his proclivities. "If theft is your game," I whispered to him. "Then I say that we both were quite criminal last night."

Holmes nodded. "Yes. And in more ways than one."

"What do you mean by that?" He had never seemed especially concerned with the law before.

His entire demeanour changed right before my eyes. With a dark expression he threw the front page of the _Times _at me. "It's criminal, Watson! Positively criminal!" He shot to his feet and walked slowly to the window, tightening his dressing gown around his thin body.

I read aloud: "'_Wilde Trial at Old Bailey-to start. Accused charged with 25 counts of gross indecency and conspiracy to commit gross indecency… _Wilde? Is this the playwright chap, what is it-_Oscar _Wilde?"

"The very same. The man is a literary genius. His most recent play2 has been at St. James since February. To a packed house, I hear."

"Yes, and he had a novel just a few years back, I recall. It was a bit long-winded for my taste, but all-in-all-what the devil was the title-The, er…The Picture, the Portrait…"

"_The Picture of Dorian Grey."_

"Yes, that's it…but why on Earth does this fellow have you so distressed?"

"Well, to begin with, what the deuce do you think these charges of 'gross indecency' are?"

"It's rather vague…it could be anything. Why, I think…oh, Lord…do you mean that…"

Holmes did not reply. Rather reached up and swiped the drapes open and folded his arms to his chest. I felt the same sudden chill that no doubt had ripped through his body just seconds earlier.

"It is a violation of section 11 of the '85 Criminal Law Amendment Act. A law so vague in its intricacies that these…curs can include anything they find to be sordid as being among the hidden lines of the law. Including, apparently, anything of a sexual nature between two men. " His voice was completely inert as he turned back to me. "And that isn't that half of it, Watson. There is something that I have been meaning to tell you, but rather felt, well…I didn't know how you would react, you see."

"You know that you can tell me anything, my dear Holmes." At least, I hoped that to be true.

"It is not of much consequence," he began, immediately causing me to think that it was anything but. "This Wilde scandal has reminded me of it, and I think that you would agree that we cannot ignore the irony of the situation."

"Something has happened?" I guessed.

He shook his head. "If you want to be very vague, than of course. Specifically, this something has further reminded me of what my life could have been, and the chance that I am forcing on you. It is something that came out at the trial of Richard Bishop."

"Richard Bishop?" I was surprised, more than I could speak of. Because of my own dilemma with my sister, I had ignored for the most part the trial that preceded that most strange case that Holmes and I had been involved in, and my friend had spoken little of it, save to say that it had occurred and the accused convicted. But the details remained as blank as a chalkboard, and it hadn't occurred to me to ask questions. I highly doubted it was a case that I would publicise, given what had happened at the conclusion. I had long ago decided it best only to publish those that demonstrated the mental powers of my friend to the best degree, and to leave those more sensitive ones to my old dispatch box. And although there was nothing delicate per-say in the case itself, given that it was the beginning of a link of chains that led to this day, I thought I would have a time of it making it seem like any other case. But I digress…

"The case seemed to be as any other, to begin with," said my friend, speaking more to the glass of the window than to me. "I have given my testimony to some 58 criminal trials, if my count is correct; sometimes it being trivial and nearly unnecessary and other times the entire case nearly hanging on my words. This case seemed to be of the latter, as it was I who discovered, of course, that Bruce Bishop was actually his own brother-in-law, Michael Hilton. Well, to make a long story short, doctor, the trial itself was rather without interest, particularly for a fellow so used to witnessing its procedures. But in the closing arguments, the defence attorney, no doubt in an attempt to garner sympathy for his young client, made a comment-only a comment mind you-that suddenly put a lot of pieces together in my mind. Do you recall when I told you that Hilton was disinherited by the Earl of Cantor and forced to flee England for France?"

"Yes, I recall…something of a scandal of a personal nature. What was it?"

He did not even try to be delicate. He spoke plain and deeply. "It appears that this poor boy, for that was what he was, had his life taken away-both familiarly and professionally-for being in love. With a young actor whose name remains hidden."

"God…" I mused. "Well, is it any wonder, then, that he turned criminal! Just to be…abandoned like that." I rose to my own feet now, and went over to the window myself. "Holmes, I know that you are trying to make a point here. But while I feel for both Michael Hilton and poor Mr. Wilde, if you think that this is going to change my mind about…well, anything, than you have made a grievous error in judgment about me."

He smiled, genuinely this time, but touched with a hint of sadness. "No, Watson…I have yet to misjudge you, I think. Not since the days following our first meeting when I underestimated your importance in my life. The reason I told you this…I think it was more for my own benefit than yours. Perhaps it is a revelation for me as to the kind of life I could have had, and still could, if I at all show more of my soul then I intend. To be like Oscar Wilde, and have my private life paraded in front of a group of men with no more right to judge what I engage in behind closed doors than I have to judge them. Or worse, to be like Michael Hilton, and to have everything I hold dear taken away…oh, the mere contemplation of it is enough to drive a man insane. He turned and grasped me hard on the shoulder, his face flushed and emotional. "And do not pretend for a moment that it will be any better for you. You will share a cell next to me in a block so dark that I will not be able to see the beauty of your face, and so cold that I will only be able to imagine the warmth of your hand on mine. And little John Sherlock…he will be sent to live with your sister, where I can rationalise all traces of incredible potential will be squeezed out of him, and rather than seeing me as an idol he will grow up hating the man responsible for his father being taken away…and my own family, for what it is worth…Mycroft would never forgive me for ruining our name…

"Holmes!" I exclaimed, grabbing his arm and shaking him. "Do come back to your senses! You are rambling like a madman!" The colour slowly came back to his face and the clarity to his eyes. "I know that you are afraid," I said much quieter.

He pulled away with a scoff. "Afraid? Really, Watson."

"It is nothing to be ashamed of! I…I am, as well."

He glanced at me out of the side of his face. "It is not fear that propelled me to this, doctor. It is the horrid injustice of it all! No man should have the right to proclaim sentence on another for an act that does not degrade another, or the city he lives in, or anything at all. As much as I deplore those who would take religion and the Bible to such extreme that they oppress those around them; those that would ignore everything that it offers are equally deplorable. The kindness, the equality and love that we are supposed to show to our fellow man…they twist such things until it is so tight that it is impossible to unravel…and walk about on airs that we such creatures are mentally imbalanced and are exactly where we belong."

"Holmes…"

"Perhaps they should just be done with it and stick Wilde and I in a room wheree can share a frontal lobotomy!"

"Holmes…"

"Well, Watson, you are something of a doctor, perhaps you should tell me. Am I a depraved idiot with some sort of mental disorder?"

"Are you quite finished?" He opened his mouth as if to protest, but then closed it. "Good. Then if you are quite done with protesting to every event that has not even happened, nor will, perhaps you would be kind enough to open this window and stand here with me and have a pleasant cigarette? Just as we do every morning."

And that was exactly what we did, rather in silence as I think both he and I needed a break after all that. We stood feeling the sweet smell of April swirl in around us, early enough that the acrid smoke had not time to pollute it yet. The sun was greyish-red off the glass and the tops of the roofs of Baker Street. Carriages jostled by and people walked by, children weaving in around them, shouting.

I finished my cigarette and snubbed it out. "Well, it's a lovely day. What plans have you?"

He smiled. "I'm to report my findings on the case of the tobacco millionaire at the inquest today."

"And after?"

"Nothing that I know of."

"Excellent. Then I shall see if I can get tickets to St. James for the eight o'clock performance. And I dare say we might grab a bite at the Strand before. What say you?"

"Performance? But…Mrs. Hudson is going to Surrey today to visit her sister, have you forgotten? There will be no one to watch the boy."

"Oh, we'll take him with us. I think he would like to see a play. And I would like to have someone with me to answer the hundreds of questions he will no doubt have. How's that?"

His mouth twitched up, and he moved to place both arms around me. "Thank you, Watson," he whispered.

"For what? I have done nothing."

I was instantly released. "If you wish it that way. It is enough that _I _know what you have done. _E Tenebris, nunc scio quid sit Amor._"3

I groaned. "You know, Holmes. You really do infuriate me."

"In what way, my dear sir?" He asked innocently.

"By making me wish that I had paid more attention in Latin class!"

Holmes laughed and in an instant I saw him transform into his normal self "Come now, Watson. We must be idle no longer. I must prepare for the Harding inquisition and you must prepare for the John Sherlock Inquisition. Now, I shall be back just after dinner time. If you cannot get the tickets, send a telegram round to Scotland Yard, and I dare say I may get it in time…oh, and I am expecting word of the case involving Miss Smith…if anything comes by post…"

He voice trailed off, and I heard him close himself into his room, leaving me smiling and with two other small errands that I must accomplish. One was to retrieve the card of a _Docteur_ Vernet, and the other was to retrieve once again my old Latin text…

_If I told anyone that there was going to be two versions of this chapter-one for and one for holmesslash, I decided that it was unnecessary, and liked it the way it was. Although I may have to do it in the future, depending on how much will let me get away with. But that's all for now. Again, best wishes of the season to you all._

1 I simply have to comment here on a lot of the slash fics I have read. It seems that a lot of people think that men are like superheroes, as virile as stallions. Come on, these are human beings and to have them go two, three even four times in a row is just unrealistic. Okay, thanks for putting up with my ranting…

2 The Importance of Being Earnest

3 Out of the darkness, now I know well what Love is. E Tenebris is also the title of a poem by Oscar Wilde, ironically (or not) enough.


	17. Chapter 17

_Well, I'm back from vacation…hope everyone had a good holiday and new year. We're going ahead in time a little. I hope that this assuages the worries of everyone who thought that the last chapter would be the last. No, no…we have quite a way to go. As always, thanks for the great reviews and enjoy!_

For a year and a half's time, Sherlock Holmes and I managed our relationship with some ease, mainly due to the fact that in those years-'95 and '96, my friend was so busy with his work, there was time for little else. And although we were not together often, the lingering cloud of the law seemed to me to constantly be hanging over us1. Perhaps that explained why we did not chance often being together, for as the days and months went by, everything seemed to me to be becoming more and more as it always was. Holmes, the great detective, and me, the humble assistant. Whether or not this was good or bad, I couldn't say as of yet, but it would become infinitely clear before long.

Over the years, throughout my relationship with Holmes, it always surprised me how little I knew of the man. Even after our mutual feelings became known, I still could not be honest and say that I knew him. After all, when one lives with another for a dozen or so years, completely under the impression that this other is incapable of the very emotions that would later shape their very relationship, one must be rather a poor judge indeed. Even when the one being judged is a master of deception, such as Sherlock Holmes always will be. However, it is not so much my oblivion to his emotional state that vexed me; it was my ignorance of nearly all that occurred in his life before we became acquainted. He spoke of those years very infrequently, and I must admit to being apprehensive as to asking anything, for he seemed so unwilling to talk about it. I knew, of course, that his people were descended from country squires, that he more than likely grew up isolated and that both he and his brother had escaped to University as soon as possible. Of course in the tale of the _Gloria Scott_ I wrote that he few friends there, and it was the father of one of these few that encouraged my friend to his profession.

Always, though, I was left to wonder about the many, many gaps. Who were his parents? How had his early years shaped his deductive mind? What was the relationship amongst the brothers, and the family as a whole? And most of all, what events had helped to mould him into the unique person he was?

As I near the final chapters of my own existence on the planet, I reflect on the numerous occasions that those loyal readers have written to me, or stopped me in the streets, or have simply come right out to ask me questions regarding all that I left out of my original accounts of my friend. And more than anything else, what these questions regarded were his past. _Surely after all those years you must have learned more than you are letting on. You must know something of his past…_And then I would smile, shake my head, and change the subject. As long as he was alive, I would never reveal the knowledge I once assumed would accompany me to my grave. But as there can be no damage now to reveal this pain of Holmes, I will do so in the most delicate and accurate way possible. For more so than any other reason, I wanted in this memoir to reveal the human side of my friend. And nothing more than his past, and what occurred when at last I was allowed access to it, could possibly convey all the emotion that lay bottled-up in his heart.

It was October of '96, just days after Josh's fifth birthday, when Holmes and the boy sat about the sitting room with the boy's present between them- a fine chess set. At first glance, one may come to the conclusion that this was just a bit of sport between the boy and the man, but one who saw the two on a regular basis would instantly know better. This was, as was everything with them it seemed, a lesson. Josh was coming along nicely, according to my friend, but he was speaking only mentally of course, as the boy's educationist. In addition to the trivium2, he added abstract lessons in chemistry, biology, geography and language including Latin and French. Indeed Josh had to be one of the best educated children in all of London except for the actuality that these lessons were not regular. They occurred whenever Holmes had the fancy to teach them, and that could be any time, anywhere. Days might pass to the extent that I nearly wondered if he had forgotten who his young pupil was, and others he might become aggravated if the boy could not handle French grammar, vegetable alkaloids, and memorising British common laws in one day. In my heart, I now know that I should not have let this go on the way it did, for I've no doubt that this contributed to the enormous pressure bound to explode within the boy. Which of course it did. But I get ahead of myself… my soul contribution as of then was to encourage him to read anything and everything he could get his hands on, and I must say that I think he enjoyed that more than anything else. While he occasionally grumbled about his routines with Holmes, he never complained about reading and writing. It seemed to me then that he had been engaging in them since the day he arrived on this planet.

The two great minds sat just off the fire; the flames flickering off their heavily concentrating faces. Josh, particularly, sat with a wide-eyed glower, his head resting on his arms, his legs hanging perfectly still. It was a familiar look of utter absorption. As soon as the manoeuvres that would lead him to victory became apparent, the short little legs would begin to swing. I had already supposed that he would never be much of a card player. His entire body gave him away.

Neither player played for speed. Or indeed for pleasure. This was a lesson. The boy watched the board, and Holmes watched the boy. It was quite a beautiful sight for me, with the two people I loved most together in front of me. But that was a thought I kept to myself.

"Queen to b4," said Holmes after his eagle eyes swept the board for nearly half a second. "And there goes you rook, my dear John Sherlock. That is also check." Josh frowned and kicked at the table with one small foot that hung nearly a foot off the ground. "Tell me what the next move is. You should be able to see my victory is inevitable. Tsk! Now, don't move the pieces. Use your mind. _See _it logically."

"It's difficult without moving the pieces, Uncle."

"You must move them with your _mind_."

I watched over the top of my newspaper, trying to make is seem as though as I was engrossed in the football scores. I looked upon the boy with pride, and the pair of them with awed humour. The utter concentration, the focus…why, one would think that the fate of our country rested upon these four shoulders if the child could not foresee whatever trap Holmes had led him into.

Josh suddenly straightened and beamed up at his godfather. "I have it!"

"Are you certain?"

"Of course. First, I shall move my King," the boy explained, whipping the pieces about with surprising grace for such stubby little fingers. "To e3; you will take it with your Bishop and check me; I counter with a check here, by my Queen at c4, King to d2, check, Queen to a2, King to b1, and that is all. I will be in mate."

Holmes hesitated for a moment, (or perhaps a second), but then he let out a rare whoop. "It was well-played, lad! Well-played indeed!" Holmes swept him up from his chair to swing him back to his feet. Josh beamed widely, certainly more excited about his losing the game than any other child would have been, his clear eyes positively glowing with the light of the fire, and I most admit to feeling some jealousy in my own heart. It is such a brainless emotion for a grown man to feel, particularly toward his own son, and even more so when the praise he receives is from ones dearest friend, but Holmes had so often snubbed my own contributions to his cases that I couldn't help but feel I deserved more praise than I received.

"I take it that he was correct?" I asked, shaking my head slightly.

"In every respect, Watson. You see, that is what is known as 'King's Gambit declined'." His voice lost the animated edge it had taken on for the boy (or rather for himself at teaching the boy), and resumed that of the master addressing his pupils. "It was used by one of the great masters of the game, Henry Bird, in '58 in our own fair city. Bird v Morphy. And you, John Sherlock, recognised it and explained why I would mate you with it."

"Thank you, Uncle," said my son. "But I wish you would let me play you without teaching me logic. I want to see if I can beat you without you letting me."

"Letting you? I was doing nothing of the kind! It was a lesson in logical thinking, yes, but you recognised the gambit without me 'letting' you win."

"But can't we ever play…just for fun?"

Holmes looked snidely for a few seconds, as if this particular form of chess never had occurred to him before. It was positively hilarious. "Yes, well, we shall see. Perhaps when you are a bit more along. I feel it will be damaging for your young mind to play me for pleasure. Losing decreases one's confidence."

Josh looked absolutely crestfallen, and I was appalled myself. "Holmes!" I rebuked. "That was rather cruel of you. How do you know that the boy will lose? You yourself are always saying how much farther along he is compared to other children."

"Am I?" The boy looked slightly appeased.

"Indeed you are." I assured before Holmes could say something else that would 'damage the boy's young mind.'

"Well, of course you are, John Sherlock! I would not say it if I were not so! But I cannot say that you have advanced to a point of competition with my own brain yet. It is something that will take many years of practice and erudition."

I was just to a point of shaking off his arrogance (although I realise I should have been used to it), when the door to the sitting room was opened, and our landlady entered carrying her tray to empty the cold remains of the supper in one steady hand and a yellow envelope that I recognised as a telegram in the other.

Holmes spied it an instant before I. "A late telegram, I see, Mrs. Hudson. For whom?"

"Why, you of course, Mr. Holmes. Just dropped off not two minutes ago."

My friend took it with a thanks, but then froze when he saw it. He turned it over and then over again. "Wait, Mrs. Hudson! Who delivered this?"

She was carefully pilling our tea service on top of the supper plates. "Just a young man, sir. I'd never seen him before. But he was clean, at least. Looked respectable. Not like some of these filthy things that you insist upon giving free range to in the house"-

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." He replied, waving her out of the room. He ripped it open and pulled out the form inside. I watched his face with some interest, but for some unknown reason, I thought it best not to ask anything. It went from interest and surprise, to shock, to astonishment and at last to something close to rage. His fist contorted unconsciously, and at last I realised the gravity of the situation. "Holmes, what the devil is wrong?" Acting on instinct, I rose to go to him.

He looked at me with wide eyes. Clearing his throat, he rolled the telegram into a ball with one hand and hurled it into the fire. The paper caught and rippled into a glowing red ball. "Just a note from brother Mycroft."

"Mycroft?"

"Indeed."

"But what did it say, Uncle?"

Holmes stood facing away from us, his eyes fastened to the fire. "Nothing of any importance."

"Was it about a case?" Josh was practically jubilant with only the thought. Beaming, he grabbed at my friend's arm. "Uncle! May I help you? Please? I am sure I'm ready!""

Holmes pulled away. "It was most certainly _not _about a case! Now, if you don't mind, I would appreciate the entire matter dropped!"

But the boy was too much in a state to notice that the man was not in the sort of mood to tolerate his youthful exuberance.

"But I'm _ready_…"

"You most certainly are _not_ ready for any such thing," Holmes reprimanded, staring at the boy with a hard expression. "You have only begun to prepare your mind toward a state of deductive reasoning. And it is clear that you have forgotten one of the most basic lessons of logic, and that is to show the complete restraint and sense in the face of emotion. Now, I think you had better leave my sight before I should become angry with you!"

The boy's reaction was nearly delayed compared to my own, for I think he was nearly shocked by his words. As indeed was I. I rose to my feet with an open mouth, but before I could decide whether to go to comfort Josh or Holmes, my son had turned completely red with unshed tears and dashed as fast as his short legs would carry him toward his own attic room, swinging the door open hard behind him. As for Holmes, he could only stand by the fire with folded arms, contemplating whatever it was that had so upset him. I could not imagine anything that could have been in that telegram to cause such a severe reaction as this.

"What is it, Holmes?" I asked with some concern, for never had I seen anything that caused him to become belligerent at the boy. I went to be beside him and briefly touched his arm, but he moved slightly to reject me.

"It is nothing, as I said."

"Has something happened to your brother?"

"No, no…nothing."

"Dash it all, man, don't treat me as if I were an imbecile! I may not be the dab-hands3 that you and Josh clearly are, but surely I can see when you are intentionally deceiving me." I stared out the open door still swinging slightly. "You gave him a tongue-lashing I doubt he'll soon forget."

"He was being impertinent! He must learn restraint!"

"Holmes! What the deuce is that matter with you? He is a five-year old child! You expect far too much from him!"

"Age is only a number, Watson. A person should be treated according to their _mental_ age; not their physical one." He snatched the poker up and stabbed at the charred remains of this telegram that had so effected him.

Now whether or not he really believed this, I couldn't say, although I doubted it. I admit that there were times I thought him to be too hard academically on the boy, but he was always paternal, even affectionate, toward him physically. While he still held him to the same unrealistic expectations he held most everyone to, he never until that moment was verbally abusive if he failed to meet those expectations. "Holmes, why don't you just tell me what has gotten you so upset?"

My friend sighed deeply, and his head fell forward, in front of the fire, I saw his eyes lose the angry gleam that had appeared the instant the telegram had. Instead, they took on a lonely, even fearful look, as if some sudden realisation had taken hold of him. He slowly folded his hands in front of his chest and said, "Watson, will you do something for me? Two things, in fact?"

"You need only ask."

He smiled. "Good old Watson. First, I need you to accompany me to Cornwall on the first train out of Victoria tomorrow…"

"Cornwall? Why Cornwall?"

"And second, I need you to stay with me tonight."

My eyebrows rose up at that. He had never asked me before. In all the times that we were together, it was always I that came to him. I think he feared, even after more than a years time, that I would reject him. And unfounded as his fear was, that was something his ego would not be able to handle. It must be serious indeed to prompt him to break through this self-imposed barrier. "Of course I will," said I.

"I mean," he replied shaking his head. "I need you to stay the entire night with me. Just to stay with me."

I doubt I did much of a job of hiding my disappointment. Or my surprise. "You know that is not possible." I told him in a crestfallen voice. "Why will you not just tell me what on Earth has happened?"

He gave no reply, but his head fell even lower.

Feeling the twangs of disappointment and irritation now, I thrust my hands into my pockets. "Well, then if you cannot see your way to trusting me, I'm off to bed…" I turned on my heels and all but stomped toward the door.

"Watson, don't go…"

"I fear I must. You ask the impossible and refuse to provide even the vaguest of details…"

"I don't care if you think it impossible! I grow weary of this constant discretion that we always must show! For once…" he paused, and we both looked at each other. "For once, Watson, I must admit…"

"Y-yes?"

He cleared his throat, nervously searching his pockets for his cigarette case. When he found it, he lit one and tried to compose the distortion in his face. "For once, I must admit that I need you." He paused, with a brief smile. "And not to assist me. I do not…I cannot be alone tonight, you see."

I was unsure as to what to say. I was so filled with curiosity that in my selfishness, I nearly considered denying him unless he agreed to tell me what had happened. But after that anger passed, as I was certain it would, I knew that I could not injure him that way. He was in pain, over something anyhow, more so I think, than I had seen. And it was my duty to be there beside him. Despite the risk. "If you need me, than I am here," I told him. I thought to say more, but shut it at the last second. There was no need for obstinacy.

Holmes puffed hard on his cigarette. "If for no other reason than to assure me of your loyalty, where I have shown you none?"

I wasn't entirely sure whether this was a question or a statement, so I said nothing.

My friend's face softened somewhat upon realising my feelings. "I _will_ tell you, Watson, when the time is right. And upon my word, you know that you have my complete trust."

"I should hope so."

"You needn't hope. It is so. Only it is a convoluted and laborious actualisation, and I have yet to come to the point where I can explain it to another. Even to you, my dearest doctor. You need only to posses your soul in patience."

I nodded. "My ear is yours, then, Holmes, whenever you have need of it."

He smiled. "Thank you, Watson."

Both Josh and our landlady had gone asleep by ten o'clock, and I knew that I would spend the night resting little, so I worried less as I came to Holmes' room. It was highly unlikely we would be caught. I had wondered, though, how exactly Holmes expected the two of us to fit on his bed, but the problem was solved, I saw.

Holmes had prepared a makeshift pallet on the floor with various bits of bedding and pillows, and we were to down doss4 there. It did not look especially comfortable (for myself, at least, for he could sleep anywhere) and I knew that I would be repaid for my generosity by stiff and throbbing limbs come the morrow.

"Thank you again, my dear friend," said Holmes, as I awkwardly settled myself in for the night. He lowered the gas until all that remained of him was a dark shadow that buried himself next to him on the floor.

"Are you not going to tell my anything?" I tried in vain once again.

"We shall have an early morning, Watson," he mumbled as if drowsy. "I think it best to leave explanations for then."

"Will you not at least tell me why I am here? I have never seen you so shaken as when you read that telegram."

He snorted in annoyance and buried his head deeper into a pillow. "I simply…_needed_ you tonight," he paused, his rapid brain firing one lie after another. "I always feel more rested in the morning on the nights you are nearer to me."

I could feel the relentless hand of frustration close itself 'round my throat, and to avoid erupting in a fury of panicked emotion over the man, I decided the only gentile thing was to feign sleep. I would sooner convince Satan to rise to this Earth than Sherlock Holmes to change his stubborn mind.

For several long hours, I watched the ethereal form of my partner, lying on his side facing away from me; his chest rising and falling, the sound of his breathing a low moan in the back of his throat. I was more observant in the dark apparently, when there is less to be observant about. I noticed the pale flickering light that played off the sharp lines of my friend's features; the soft downiness of his hair; the glowing roughness of his face; the subtle twitches that told me even in sleep his mind never quit. It was all very lulling. Lulling enough, in fact, that out of boredom and exhaustion, I at last fell into a dreamless half-sleep.

The last thing I recalled was how young and unspoiled my dear Holmes looked in the grips of sleep. I realised I could never be angry with him after seeing him like this. The great detective as human as I, at least in the dark of night.

Sometime around one, I believe, I was awoken by the strangest of noises. Long ago, (as most military men will no doubt tell you) I had trained myself to awaken and be ready immediately if necessary from even the deepest of sleeps. In war, it is a matter of life and death. But the thankful (or unfortunate, depending on the point of view) thing is, once one learns the habit, it cannot be forgotten.

The noise I immediately saw was coming from Holmes. He was talking, or mumbling rather, in his sleep. At first, I thought it to be mere unintelligibles, but they soon grew louder and more forced.

"No…no…Philly, no…no, Philly, no, you mustn't…NO!"

"Holmes!" I cried, now wide-awake. "Wake up, for Heaven's sake!" I shook him hard upon the shoulder, but to no avail. "Holmes, please, you must wake up!"

He did at last, with a sharp gasp from the back of his throat that was perhaps nearer to a scream than a gasp. His eyes popped open and immediately he turned on me, surprised. It took at least three full seconds before the recognition hit and the anger and shock seemed to seep away. Taking a long breath, he reached up to his face with a groan and slight shake of the head. "My apologies, Watson," he said in a guttural voice, still clogged with sleep. "I did not mean to awaken you."

"My God, Holmes! You were having some sort of terrible nightmare!" I reached apprehensively for his shoulder, but he seemed to stiffen at my touch so I released him. "Has this something to do with that telegram? This nightmare of yours?"

"No, I think not." He faked a small smile at me, and petted my knee in a reassuring manner. "It was only a dream, to be a certain. And I think it best to just resume our sleep. Shall we then?"

"But-Holmes, please. Who is this Philly? You seemed…well, quite concerned over her…or is it a him? Who the devil is it that has gotten you so upset?"

"I do not wish to discuss it!" He yelled, and then regained his composure somewhat with a long and shaky breath. "Please, Watson…I beg of you…you must give over5 until I am ready. I need time."

"Time!" I felt enraged, and not for the first time. Never had I met another human being capable of arousing such intense emotions in me as this man. Normally, I would consider myself a calm and collected fellow. I may be a man who occasionally let irrationality cloud his mind, but never was I overtly emotional. Until my life became permanently entangled with Sherlock Holmes. And now all there could be was emotion. Both extreme and insignificant; beneficial and ineffectual. But angry as I was now, I couldn't let my worry for him overrule my better judgment. He _would _tell me when he was ready. I should not force him. "Alright…alright, my apologies. I will wait until you are ready. You know that I am only asking because"-

"Yes, I know." He interrupted. I was sure that he looked at me with quite a bit of appreciation hidden in that strange and arrogant grin. "Go to sleep, my dear doctor."

But I could not. Holmes did once again, and for the night this time, but I was forced only to lay and watch him, certain that he would awaken, sweating and shouting for this Philly-whoever it may be. And so I just lay, propped up on one arm until there was no feeling on my entire right side, listening to the raspy sounds of his breathing, wanting so to reach out and grab him, shake him first until he had to tell me what lay on his mind; then distract him to near insanity with my own body, and finally, when we were both completely devoid of any urges, hold him safe from the demons that plagued him. Instead, I just lay, listening until exhaustion got the better of me.

1 Doubtful that Watson was paranoid either. After the Wilde trial, people began to look for 'lewd behaviour' everywhere. Sort of like McCarthyism in the 50's.

2 Rhetoric, grammar, and logic

3 experts

4 bed down

5 to cease an activity


	18. Chapter 18

_If it helps to apologise, then I do, and I hope that the fact this is twice as long as usual helps…_

The 8:56 to Wadebridge, Cornwall pulled out of the station, jostling me back momentarily to reality. My sleepless mind and stiff body both ached in the uncomfortable seat, and although it was a warm and bright day for London in October, I could hardly say that this was one adventure I was looking forward to with my friend. His actions the previous night still beset me, and from the moment he roused me to all but push me out of his room early that morning to right that second, he had said hardly a word. And now, stretched across two seats in front of me, legs kicked out and arms crossed, he had the brim of his hat pushed down over his face, apparently dowsing. He could sleep, just like that, after what had happened the last night. There was no sweating and panting, no calling for people I didn't know.

No need for me.

Again, I was following him blindly, no questions asked. Leaving my life behind to follow willingly into Lord knows what. Why? I knew, but somehow didn't at the same time. It must have had something to do with what he had said to me last night:

_For once, Watson, I must admit that I need you._

And nothing more need be said to explain why I would be sitting here for some five hours with him, without even the first clue as to why.

We were somewhere between Victoria and Salisbury when at last I could stand the silence no longer. Moving to sit next to him, I placed my hand on his arm.

"You know, Holmes," said I. "You are not the only man in existence to be plagued by nightmares."

"Really?" He replied without interest, pushing his cap back and lighting the first of many cigarettes.

I knew that I could not endure five-plus hours of quiet, pretending to take an interest in either my newspaper or the passing farm land, breathing in far too much heavy shag, and pretending all was well. And so for the first time in our relationship, I confessed one of the deepest secrets I knew myself to hold. "Since the war," I began, not sure how to explain or even what to say really. "It's the same every night. I'm standing in the tent setting the leg of a young private. Patrick Bennett is making fun of Captain Aubrey. We're all just having a bit of fun. Until suddenly the world just seems to explode around us. Funny, really. It didn't even sound like gunfire. Just…an explosion that never ended. They were all dead…Bennett, Smythe, the boy with the broken leg…his innards were hanging out…well, I remember laying there covered in blood. Some of it was mine, some of it wasn't. My shoulder and leg are on fire. I knew I wasn't dead, of course, because death could not be this painful. The boy, the private, that is…I don't even recall his name…he was cut to ribbons…pieces…and somehow he had fallen on top of me…it's really a wonder that Murray, my orderly, realised I was alive, you know. I am sure I looked lost to the world. Well, I…I can't seem to forget. I can't seem to stop thinking why I lived, and those other chaps did not. Why was I spared? Was there anything I could have done to prevent it? I suppose that is why I still relive it…"

Holmes stared at me with a wide-eyed expression, one that I could not interpret upon first glance as to whether it was surprise or anger. But it became clear directly when he reached for my hand and squeezed it so tightly that I winced. "I'm sorry, John," he said in a low voice. "It cannot be easy for you. Believe me when I say that I understand."

"Tell me, then," I replied rapidly, sensing the opening. "Please, my dear, you must allow me to help you."

But as instantly as the opening had appeared, I watched it close again before my very eyes, and the man retreated back in into the shell as surely as I was sitting next to him. His entire demeanour hardened and he slowly pulled his hand away in a gesture that clearly demonstrated where still I stood in all of this. "You remember of course the case of the Baskervilles?"

"Of course." His ways of shifting the conversation were something I would never grow accustomed to.

"You recall in your letters to me how you wrote of the moor…the fearfulness of the place…the dark isolation of Baskerville Hall…"

"It is not something I am likely to forget, Holmes. But what are you getting at?"

Shifting about in his seat, he replied: "Because the place that we are going is far more dark…far more isolated…far more fearful." And then he turned and refused to speak for the better part of four hours, the only noise being the clicking of his cigarette lighter.

I tried to regain some of the lost sleep in the five hours from Victoria Station to Wadebridge. The ride was smooth, the sun from the window was pleasant and warm, yet all I could do was shift from one uncomfortable position to another for some 400 kilometres.

At the station at last, I had hoped that we could stop and enjoy a bite to eat together, but I was practically dragged after him the second we stepped from the carriage and secured our bags into a waiting dogcart. "Bodmin Moor," ordered Holmes. "The estate just north of Bodmin Gaol."

"There is a prison here?" I questioned as the cart headed out unsteadily.

"Oh, yes. Bodmin Gaol is ironically notorious for its brutality. Up until recently, it was a pillar of activity. The Cornish would all flock about to view the many public executions."

"How deplorable." I commented, although I confess not seeing how at all irony played a part in it.

"We will also be passing very near to the Dozmary Pool."

"The name is familiar."

"It should," said Holmes. "It is the legendary pool where King Arthur was supposedly given Excalibur by the Lady of the Lake. But of course, that is just a myth. The area, though, is quite fantastic. You and your son would enjoy it, no doubt."

"Oh...no doubt."

"Enjoy the scenery, my dear Watson," said he motioning with outstretched arms. "The skylarks singing, the wind whistling through the moor grasses, the golden plover1 can be seen this time of year occasionally even this far inland, and of course, clouded yellow butterflies. It all…fits you so very well. And we have nearly two hours, if this animal maintains the current pace." And with a small smile, he shut his eyes and would not speak to me the rest of the trip.

Finally, just as I thought the silence would madden me, a house, or rather a small estate came into view. Just over a tor, I first saw the distinctive Cornish elm trees that caged the outer edges of the property, and then the dark grey granite that the entire building was made of. The house was built in three symmetrical wings2, with the left and right ones jutting out from the central part of the house. The overly romantic writer in me, (if indeed there was one, as Holmes was so found of assuring me there was) could not help but immediately think of these as two giant arms reaching out toward us. Closer the horse and cart crept and more and more my imagination was released. The windows, though barely visible through the trees, I saw had heavy iron bars covering them. Thick coverings of vegetation strangled the granite, and heavy shadows blocked out all possibilities of cheerfulness. It was like something out of a nightmare. And indeed, it seemed entirely possible that it could have _been _out of a certain nightmare.

"Is this where we are to go?" I asked, staring at this dreadful and nearly fearful place. It seemed the gloom of it stretched for miles and I felt a strange chill in the very marrow of my bones as the sun was encapsulated by the tip of the black slate roof. The dogcart, my friend and I were completely dipped in darkness.

"Indeed, this is it."

"What a horrid place! But why have we come to such a site?" I turned to my friend, and was surprised to see him very affected. He gazed up just under the brim of his cloth cap with a nearly disgusted look and hard eyes. When he spoke, it was with vile in his throat.

"Yes, I could not agree more."

"Well, then why on Earth are we here?"

"Because," replied he, stabbing viciously at the boards of the cart with his stick, "Because this is the place I spent my childhood."

I was taken aback, but in an utterly eager way that I could not help. After all these years, was I at last to find out the greatest mystery of all? The one of the past of Sherlock Holmes? "Do you mean that this was your childhood home?"

"For God's sake, Watson!" He exclaimed, again pounding with his stick. "I said no such thing! I said that this is the _place _I spent my childhood."

"Ah, there's some difference, then?" I said with a smile, but the severe look that followed from my friend caused me to reconsider, and clearing my throat, I tried to avoid falling on my face as the dogcart was brutally jostled down the rutty road, the driver muttering encouragements to his horse.

"Certainly even _you_ can figure out the difference. Home implies sanctuary, security, even tranquillity. This place," he motioned in a wild, ferocious manner with his stick toward it, "Is anything _but_."

The carriage at last stopped before a high iron gate, slightly oxidised, covered in thick growths of weeds from the ground to the razor sharp tips. As we disembarked from the cart, I studied this with the foreboding feeling growing within me. "I begin to see what you mean, my friend. Your parents must not have been especially…social. And it obviously explains your own Bohemian soul."

He smiled, however briefly. "But my soul is no longer that colour, Watson. For one day I awoke, and the Lord said, 'It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a helper fit for him.3' Now come, Watson, let us see what awaits us."

We passed through the gate and down a dirt path that was bathed on either side in hundreds of those unmistakable Cornish elms. The long, erect branches jutted seemingly in every direction around us; the leaves hissing as we passed. Although the house itself was only a hundred feet or so in front of us, the darkness made it seem miles away. I had always imagined that my friend had spent his youth in some isolated area4, away from civilisation, but I certainly did not imagine that he grew up in this haunted seclusion that I immediately began to apply meaning to. We had passed no other houses in the two hours from Wadebridge, and I knew enough of psychology to realise that both he and Mycroft, who both loathed, yet needed society disparately, particularly Sherlock, had to have had their beginnings at such a place where it was denied them. Recalling my own childhood with siblings, cousins, friends only half a mile away, I couldn't imagine the intense loneliness that such a place as this must plague a boy's mind. But seeing the dour expression on my companion's face, I didn't dare say anything of it to him.

"Well, sir!" A rather booming voice interrupted my thoughts from behind, just as we had descended the central courtyard between two main wings and the front door. We turned to see the massive figure of Jupiter looming over us, a melancholic figure of complete black except for the pale white head. "I had wondered if you had received my telegram, for perhaps it has escaped your great powers of observations that no reply has graced my hand." Mycroft had a complete look of influence about him, the kind that I associated with the man on every occasion we had been together.

His brother, however, while usually amiable and laudable in comparison to this influential man, now looked upon his sibling with something close to contempt. The very same that had governed his mood since before we had crossed the threshold of the train that morning. "You knew that I would be here, brother. I've no doubt of that. There was little need for reply."

"Indeed. Although I would have expected you to…_arrive_ a little more appropriately."

"Arrive? However do you mean?"

"_Do not play your games with me, sir_!" Boomed the elder Holmes. "This is not the time or place! And tomorrow, as the patriarch of this family, I am responsible for how our family is reflected." His eyes swept over his brother's light grey tweed suit and matching cap, ulster, and the cravat he wore with a certain favourite emerald tie pin. "That being said, I would be appreciative if you would dress more properly tomorrow."

It was that seemingly queer comment that I first began to see through the haze as to what was going on; what Holmes had not seen fit to let me in on. "You'll pardon my curiosity, I'm sure, gentlemen. But…has someone died?"

Mycroft's heavy grey eyes grew to massive size. "For God's sake, Sherlock, did you not tell him what has happened!"

"Unlike yourself, _brother,_" said my friend through clenched teeth. "Dr. Watson knows the meaning of the word _loyalty._"

"Don't you dare, sir. Don't you dare! I will not be a part of your ridiculous bad blooded feud over the resentment of being the black sheep of the family. If you expect me to side with you when our own mother has died"-

"And I am supposed to morn this? Certainly Mother would not be! At last she can leave behind her _flawed_ worldly family and join her only beloved one in the afterlife. That is-if she makes it there."

Mycroft's face contorted in his fury, and his actually raised the stick in his hand. "By God, Sherlock, if I had been responsible for you, as I may as well have been, you would not have turned out so brazen! What you needed was the sharp end of a stick against your bare skin a few times!"

"Gentlemen, please!" I grabbed the thin arm of my friend, who to my surprise had actually moved toward his sibling with a clenched jaw. "What on Earth has come over you? The two greatest minds in our country, and you are resorting to violence to settle your differences! Please! This is hardly the time for anger!"

I heard the wind howl behind us as if it sensed the emotion and reacted accordingly, and Sherlock relaxed his arm in my grip at the same moment his brother lowered his stick. "Certainly, you are right, Dr. Watson," said the elder Holmes. "Our emotions overloading the circuits, as it were, accomplish little but a distasteful sweat and rise of the blood pressure. Come, come, Sherlock! Let us at least put on a false pretence of civility between us for the funeral tomorrow. We needn't allow our family feud out on display for all to whisper to each other behind our backs." He offered his hand to his brother.

But Sherlock looked at the appendage with an expression I recalled used for especially distasteful visitors to Baker Street-such as Dr. Grimesby Roylott or Charles Augustus Milverton. "I've never known you to be so concerned with propriety before, brother. And I must say, it isn't especially becoming." He turned on his heel, and motioned for me to follow.

"Where the Hell do you think you are going, Sherlock?"

"Use your _immense _powers, brother. Watson and I are going back to London. There is no point in staying here any longer than you force me to, so we will return tomorrow for the funeral, and then my duty to you, our family, and this place will be finished for all of time."

"You cannot leave, Sherlock!"

"Oh, can't I?" He gave me quite a look. "Watson, do _come now_!"

In a most authoritative voice, Mycroft, retaining the posture of a soldier, called: "By the time you get back to Wadebridge for the next train to London, I think you will find that you will have missed the 6:07 by ten, maybe fifteen minutes. And that isthe _last_ train, you may be able to presume."

My friend stopped so suddenly, that I, who had in a whirl of confusion, gone to follow him, nearly ran him over. Slowly, he turned with a face hard as granite. "If you think, my _dear _brother, that I am going to stay the night in this place, you are sorely mistaken."

Mycroft stabbed at the ground harshly, a familial trait. "You, sir, are stubborn as a jackass! I wonder, Dr. Watson, why on Earth you put up with this?"

Hastily, I cleared my throat. "Well, I"-

"Now, see here," the man continued to his brother, thankfully not caring enough to wait for my answer. "Unless you plan to walk more than two hours across the moor to the nearest farm, who I warn you is not the most sociable of men. He's more Cornish5 than the ground we are standing on; then you are going to do the decent and stay here in the only home you knew for damn near twelve years and pay your respects to your mother and your family, Sherlock. Now, I have ordered little of you over the years, but this I am ordering of you _right now_. Am I clear, sir?"

There really must have been some queer power at work at that moment in time, for I certainly could not see Sherlock Holmes acquiescing to someone after making his mind up. Especially so adamant a mindset. But whatever influence was at work between elder and younger brother, it was effective at that moment.

"As repayment for the one instance of my life that I would acknowledge a debt exists, I will grant you this," said Sherlock in a low voice. "But henceforth, you exceed no authority over me. Am _I _clear on that, brother?"

Mycroft nearly smiled, but held it back well. "Inordinately."

"Then Watson and I will take the two empty rooms cross each other in the left wing for the night. Tomorrow, I will help you greet all of our mother's relations and fanatical friends, giving of course, my best performance as a son in mourning for his mother, and the instant the last shovel of dirt has forever divorced her from us, I will return to my life in London and never see, hear or think of this place again until I myself am cold in my grave. Will that suffice for you, my dear Mycroft?"

His brother narrowed his eyes and stood more even more erect. "Really, Sherlock. Are you intending to be rhetorical or is there an actual answer to that?"

The two regarded each other with intense apathy for several seconds while I stood feeling quite the proverbial third-wheel. At last Sherlock gave a sort of nod in my direction, and shoving his hands in his trouser pockets, he strolled away without a word at a rapid pace toward the thick groves of trees left of the estate. He did not look back, although I gazed uncertainly until he was out of sight, quite unsure whether I should follow him or stay where I was. Mycroft provided the answer for me by flinging the door open hard enough to bang the wall and saying, "Do not concern yourself over my brother, Doctor Watson. His antagonism was expected on my part, and I am confident that this mood will pass before long."

I, of course, after seeing him the last night was less sure. "I've never before seen him so upset," I found myself saying to him. "The death of your mother has obviously affected him more than he is admitting to."

"I highly doubt, doctor, that the passing of our mother is what is causing him to act the way he is."

"What, then?"

But Mycroft merely snorted with a wave of his hand. "Bah! I will not pander to his ever shifting temperament. And I would offer the same advice to you." He turned to walk into the estate, but I stopped him.

"I do not wish to pander to him, as you say, but I must admit that I am worried about him. Surely you see that as well! He has ni…er, he confessed to me in a moment of weakness that he suffers from nightmares." I straightened up, hoping that he did not catch on to my slip-up. As I am sure it is needless to say, at the time I had no idea that Mycroft was aware of my relationship with his brother. I couldn't imagine how I would have reacted if I knew he was informed.

"Nightmares, is it?" Asked Mycroft, his manner not altering in the least.

"Yes…and I am certain that your parents must play a part in it."

"Our parents?" He looked nearly amused.

"Yes, what are their Christian names?" The only thing I had to go one was someone with the name 'Philly.' Perhaps a nickname for his mother?

" ' Oh God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a King of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams6.' I have always enjoyed Hamlet, Dr. Watson. It is so deliciously true to life. Do you know that the only thing the really separates us from the lower forms of life is, in fact, Shakespeare?" He narrowed his eyes into two grey slits. "What do you think?"

"What? Please! This is serious, sir. Your brother's sanity is in danger! Are you not the least bit concerned?"

But Mycroft only smirked at my outburst of emotion. Seizing my arm, he motioned me inside. "Come along, doctor. I shall see if I can find us something to drink. I believe that the groundskeeper has a fresh supply of whiskey hidden in various places."

"I'm sorry, but"- I began.

He pulled harder. "I insist. And I will tell you about Philippa."

Philippa. _Philly_. The surprise of the name, or to be more exact, Mycroft saying it, slackened every muscle in my body and allowed him to easily lead me through the front door.

The interior of the nameless Holmes estate was as bathed in shadow as the exterior, but somehow with an atmosphere even more poisonous. It smelled heavily of ammonia and ash, creosote from the fireplaces, and various cleaning chemicals. Even lacking any artificial light sources, I could see enough through the cracks of the heavy drapes that the place was immaculate. The floor and doors were all of solid English oak, but hardly a scuff could be found. Dust and filth seemed words that did not exist in this household. I was fairly certain that never had I been in a more perfectly polished house. Even dear Mrs. Hudson would have been amazed that such levels of cleanliness were possible.

I silently followed Mycroft Holmes through a cloakroom and hall, all the while a growing feeling a dread becoming a realisation within me. My host walked totally without interest, his hands behind his back, as if he were leading a tour. He seemed to not care to notice anything around him. I think if he could have walked blindfolded he would have. I knew that I should have been trying to put into practice those methods with which my friend was famous for, but I admit that I feared what he was always accusing me of was more right at that moment than ever before. I was not observing. I was hardly _seeing_ at that moment. Except for the fact that both brothers were acting so excessively odd. There was not enough of my mind available to me to think on anything else.

At last, I was led into a parlour with a gigantic stone fireplace. Mycroft closed the door behind us, as if he feared we would be disturbed. He then set to turn up the gas, and in so doing gave me quite a turn. "Good Lord," I exclaimed, looking around, for the light illuminated what I would soon come to discover as one of the other major features of the estate, other than cleanliness. The room was filled with objects d'art, ranging from small statuaries to colossal murals that took up entire walls. But all had a very central theme-religion. There was a depiction of Moses holding the commandments over his head, so well done that I was able to read every one of the ten etched into the stone. Another smaller scene showed Jesus' Sermon on the Mount, and another more disturbing picture was of the millions of sinners drowning for their sins as the Ark floated confidently by, a mere inclusion for the picture was clearly meant to demonstrate the power of God's wrath. There were crucifixes upon the walls, figurines of Jesus the babe in the arms of his Mother, a tapestry the depicted the Last Supper. Oh, that my own sister could possibly hope to be lost in a room like this. It became instantly clear that this bordered on obsession, far surpassing religious zeal.

Unsure what I was expected to say to this, I merely cleared my throat, and tried to look composed, but I was sure that someone as perceptive as Mycroft Holmes was not going to miss the shock. And I was correct, of course. With a wry look, the man said, "You see now the beginning of why Sherlock and our mother…conflicted, as it were. She chose to live her life in a very specific way, and held issue with all of those who did not. Or at least could not give a pretence of agreeing with her. And as you may be able to guess, Sherlock was not one who thought he had to bow to anyone's wishes. Even as a child, he was like this. Cocky, brazen…well, I think the point is made."

For some reason, this clearly recalled to my mind a memory of a memorable case just two years previous. Black Bishop. Holmes had seemed understanding toward Richard Bishop, something I myself had not felt. '_It is not easy to have a zealot for a parent.' _That was what he had said of the boy. Then, I hadn't imagined that he was speaking from personal experience. The same with my sister, whom he seemed understandingly disgusted with, but now there was more perspective as to why. And some of the pieces seemed to be fitting together. But I said none of this to Mycroft. There was still too much to learn.

"I know what you are thinking, doctor," said he, his back turned as he removed something from the hearth of the massive fireplace.

"And what is that?"

But whatever it was, (and whether or not he was right) he wouldn't say. Instead, I saw that what he had picked up was a framed photograph. The elder Holmes briefly glanced at the photograph with a look of sympathy, as if he felt sorry the object existed in this sad house, with no one to smile fondly at it in remembrance. But that momentary weakness faded in a flash of flesh resuming steel that not even his brother would have been able to accomplish.

"Observe this," said he, thrusting it into my hand as though now the thing disgusted him. "It holds the answers to one mystery of my brother, I fear, he will never permit you to publicise."

The portrait in the slightly tarnished brass frame showed a family of five persons, all perfectly posed, all perfectly oblivious to any thoughts of emotion. The Patriarch of this clan was a large-chested man of considerable height, evident even from his seated position. I immediately noted to be a brother-man of the military, evidently one well-served from his rank of Colonel and the many medals that adorned the large trunk. He wore a full-beard and sat straighter nearly than the chair he occupied.

His wife and the Matriarch appeared to me a curious specimen. Her dress was somewhat simple in comparison to that of her family. She was the sole member to bare a darker shade of eye. Immediately, I disliked her. I cannot say why and Holmes would chastise me, for certainly I knew no logic or reason played a part in it, but there was something about the face that put me off, something that very well could have been prejudice after seeing this room. The cheeks were too pointed, the lips too pruned; the eyes were curiously flat-cold and uncaring, animal-like even. I, in my admittedly biased vision, saw no resemblance between this woman and my dear friend.

Behind the bearded fellow and his wife were their children. To the left, a son that resembled in every way his parent-including height and girth. He was of some ten and five, stood a little straighter than I normally imagined he would-with eyes that resonated both intelligence and anxiety. Although he had a full head of dark hair and a face free of any signs of aging, he still looked to me exactly like the man before me, but with one exception. The Mycroft Holmes held in my hands did not look quite so stalled and confident as the one before me. If anything, he seemed more the timid, poor-conditioned boy my school-chums and I would chase about as youngsters with the intent of beating him until he cried.

The child to the right of his father was perhaps only of eight or nine years, but already he bore out every point that adulthood would seal him with: the aquiline profile, the tall and slim build and razor-like eyes of grey. This child stared at the photographer with not the wide-eyed look of innocence, but rather the perturbing look of one who easily guesses all one's secrets. His hands held behind his back, I immediately smiled at the thought that they probably were clenched into fists. Even as a child, he was not made to take the time for something as sentimental as a photograph.

But there was a third person.

Seated between Captain and Mrs. Holmes was a young lady, a girl just short of twenty I would guess. There was not an exceptional attractiveness in the pointed nose and chin, oddly shaped eyes and freckled complexion, but she was the only of the family to bare any sort of smile, and there was a reassuring and lovely quality about her. She had nothing of the iciness of her mother, yet I was not entirely sure that I could see the father in her either.

"This," I said to Mycroft, feeling strangely as if I had just made a magnificent discovery. "This is Philippa?"

"Turn it over," was his stiff reply.

And so I removed it from the glass and saw on the reverse side, a careful script of faded indigo-coloured ink. '_Captain Aloysius G. Holmes', _it read,_ 'his wife Gertrude and their children: Philippa-age 18, Mycroft-age 15, and Sherlock-age 8.' _It was also dated and signed by the photographer of a local Cornish studio.

Taking a deep breath, I looked up at Mycroft. "Why did your brother never make any mention of a sister?"

Mycroft scoffed. "You really need ask? How many years were the two of you acquainted before he told you of my existence?"

"Yes, but…" I was not sure how to continue with my thought and still sound polite. After all, his brother must not have had the kind of significance in his life that this sister did if she caused him nightmares. Luckily, in all his intelligence, the elder Holmes brother realised my quandary and realised me from it.

"Sherlock and his sister were exceptionally close," said he, taking the picture from me. "At least as close as he and our mother were _not_. After Philippa's death, Sherlock left this place and never returned. He refused to discuss her, nor even mention her name. For he, our sister no longer existed, not even in memory. And that it how it has been all these years now."

"But why?" I asked.

Mycroft set the photograph in its proper place on the hearth of the fireplace and spoke without looking at me. "I think, doctor, no matter how puerile it seems to me now, that I must honour my word to my brother. And that word, while given some thirty years ago, bade me never to talk about…certain circumstances of our family. I think that you must implore Sherlock to tell you if you wish to know the entire story."

His reluctance did not exactly fill me with confidence. If Mycroft was reluctant to tell me of this pain, than how could I convince my friend, who seemed even more directly involved? "I know that your brother has not a high regard for women. But never did I imagine that this misogynistic attitude went as far back as childhood. Why, your mother"-

"My dear Doctor Watson," interrupted Mycroft, "you miss the _larger _picture. Our mother is the _reason _that Sherlock feels the way he does in regards to the fair sex."

Something in my throat closed off, and I had to put forth a massive effort to not choke. "You are not…er…"

Mycroft would only shake his massive head with a click of the tongue. "_That_ is most certainly not the path you want to travel down, doctor. It is more that it has to do with two people so incredibly different that one cannot accept the other for what he or she is, and refuses to lay aside these differences. Another part has to do with a woman so loved by both my mother and brother, that her death shattered any hope of reconciliation between the two."

I turned to the lovely image of the sister in the portrait, and tried to imagine that in this happy and youthful face, there was someone that my friend could love that much, more than me, more than Josh, more than his reason, more than perhaps his sanity. Was that what this was? "Then your sister's death must have fairly devastated him."

"To say the least. It is a wonder he ever recovered. Recovered his emotional state that is-for until he met you, he has never allowed any other to see any sort of glimpse of his heart. Even I have not seen anything but cold disinterest for years in my brother." He narrowed his eyes with a sober expression.

"Well, I…uh, he is a dear friend, of course. And I feel privileged to be allowed to see something other than what I describe him as in my writings." I was sure that my face was burning then, for Mycroft had hit far too close to the truth for my liking then. He could not know, so I thought, for no one did, of my true relationship with his brother, but in all his greatness I knew it would not take but a single slip-up for him to step upon the truth of the matter. "How did Philippa die?" I asked, eager to change the subject. "Childbirth?"

"It was an accident." Mycroft's voice was ice.

"How unfortunate."

"Yes," said he. "But life is full of unfortunates. Everything happens for a reason. Even my poor sister's death. For if it had not occurred, there is little doubt you and I would not be standing here talking. Sherlock would most likely never taken the career that bought him fame, and you certainly would never have met him to chronicle, nor of course your wife because of him. I may have even found myself in a very different position today. It is amazing, this world, when one thinks how everything is connected, is it not? To think how one event could so change the lives of so many others."

"Yes. Yes, indeed."

Mycroft studied me for a moment as if he had something to add to this, but in the end, all else he said was that he should show me to me room so that I may have time to relax before supper. "God only knows when Sherlock shall decide to grace us with his presence. I shall not hold supper for him. We will eat at seven, promptly."

"Do you not think that we should go and look for him?"

"He is not a child, doctor! You would do well to heed my warning in not pampering him. He is not a pleasant person when he becomes too reliant on another." Clasping his hands behind his back, he motioned me to follow him, and we left the smoking room to head to the left wing in silence.

After a rich supper served to us by a sullen faced country woman who Mycroft did not bother to introduce, he begged off for the rest of the night, claiming that the recent events had severely restricted the level of sleep he required, and that tomorrow was going to be another long day. He had been rather silent during the meal; concentrating much on his food. I tried only once to get him to speak to me, and that did not exactly go the way I had hoped.

"Have you any idea where he may have gone?"

The man responded by glaring at me poisonously and causing a loud _screech_ with his knife as he cut into his meat. My friend had often told me that his brother's abilities were far superior to his own, and I must say that in at least one respect I now knew that to be the truth. This Holmes was capable of the most venomous of looks, even more so than his brother. And so I returned my concentration to my meal, not daring to ask anything else.

With Mycroft gone to bed, Sherlock gone off to Lord knows where, and even the cook/maid having disappeared, I was left to my own recognizance. I knew immediately that I would not be able to sleep without knowing where my friend was, and I knew also that spending several hours in a chamber surround by more horrific works of art (including a painting of the destruction of Sodom, which I could but hope was coincidental) was out of the question as well. And so I set off on a lonely search for some sort of answers to my friend's behaviour. I certainly thought at that moment that I would not be granted any by either him or his brother.

As if guided by a spirit, fate, or something unseen, I somehow knew exactly where to go. I went up a long circular staircase just off the dining room where I shared that uncomfortable meal with Mycroft Holmes, and through a maze of black-draped mirrors down a long daunting hallway laid by some unseen hand. I had only one candle to guide me, and although I do not consider myself a fanciful person, I must admit that my heart was pounding in my chest, and I was paying an unnecessary amount of attention to the hollow sound of my own footfalls that echoed through the passage way.

The first7 floor was none too different when compared to the ground floor. My candle cast just enough light to save me from making an ass of myself and falling over some object, for even the halls had all sorts of items cluttered into every stray corner: endtables, tapestries, statuary and even a suit of arms. The Holmes estate reminded me very much of a museum, which did not seem at all out of place.

It was at the very end of this hallway that something caught the attention of my flickering light. It was a carving in the moulding of a doorway, small and unsteady, but noticeable nonetheless: _S.H.-a priori__8_.

The door opened with a low moan, and I stepped into another time. The entire room was mostly covered with white sheeting, with the exception of the bed, but I knew on some instinct that this was the childhood bedroom of Sherlock Holmes.

It struck me first as ironic that while the downstairs was the picture of immaculate cleanliness, this room was covered in layers of thick dust. The room was small compared to the massive tomb that I was staying the night in, but a lot of the particulars of the room were either covered up, or no longer there. Besides the bed, a night table and a wardrobe there were really only two points of interest, the most apparent being another of those horrid paintings that defined this place. Studying it with my light, I saw yet another religious scene, and somehow each new one I saw was more disturbing than the last. This one showed a chorus of angels, each one alight and beautiful-a scene out the Book. Except of course that they were surrounding the Angel of Music-Lucifer. Fire streamed from the golden clouds and the pale shimmering light that somehow was alive was sentencing him downward into the flame, as the angel slowly transformed and screamed as the fire overtook him. Underneath, just above the flame was a signature that I could not make out, and a title- '_The Betrayal.'_ A shiver made its way down my spine. Picturing the innocent watercolour pictures of tigers and monkeys, and the crude hand-drawn boats and trains that I knew to be on my own son's walls, I could not imagine what on Earth such a painting would be doing in a child's room. It was horrible. And although I knew little it anything of my friend's reasons for the rejection of his past, I had already begun to see were this anger stemmed from.

Shining my light away from this monstrosity toward the opposite wall where the dusty bookcase stood isolated, I saw though that there were only two books that remained. One was Machiavelli's _The Prince _and the other, ironically enough, a tattered and stained Bible. Opening it to a random passage, I immediately observed that someone with a terrible script had written all over it, in every available bit of white space, and sometimes over the text itself. In Exodus, as Moses received the commandments from God, there was written as comment to the 12th verse of the 20th chapter: _no one shall be honoured who does not deserve it, whether they are my mother or father or naught._

And in the 1st of Isaiah there was written about recalling the destruction of those certain cities of sin-_for God so loved his children that he killed them without a second thought?_

And in the 6th of Ephesians, as it was written, 'Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right'-_Right by whom, o Mighty God?_

And in Genesis, bold as could be in the very beginning, as God is creating the universe, it was written-_The logic of it all is deplorable!_

In my mind's eye, I could see the boy Sherlock sitting at his desk, supposedly studying the Scripture, and instead not seeing the logic of faith, and making these notes. What I could not see was what had caused this immense anger between him and his parents, particularly his mother. No doubt the mother's religious zealousness played a part in it, but surely there had to be more to it than that. Slamming the book shut, a single piece of paper fluttered out to my feet, almost as if my own thoughts had been heard and answered by some divine interference.

The paper was yellow and the black ink faded to pale lilac, but immersing myself in the flickering light of candle, I managed still to read it:

'_My Dearest brother'-_I read-

_I know in my heart the anger you feel toward me, despite your best efforts to hide it. You think me lost to you, stolen by another, the only other in existence I have ever given my complete love and affection to. If only there were words in our limited language for me to express my fond regard for you! Know that in James I see the only man I will ever wish to give my love to as a wife, but in you I see the only other I give my complete love to as a 'person'. If I could take you as my own son, as already you are in my eyes, know that I would in an instant. But although a few hundred kilometres shall now separate us, we are not lost to each other. Despite mother, I shall still see you as often as there are trains to run from here to London and back. Know also, dear brother, that while I hope to be blessed soon with children for James and I, there is not a babe likely to ever exist that could replace you. In all your immense brilliance, Sherlock, I know you see this, and will forgive me. Know me ever to be your own affectionate sister,_

_Philippa Holmes Davies, _

_(your dear Philly)_

"Well, Watson, what do you deduce about me from all of this?"

I turned so suddenly that I nearly dropped my candle. With one hand I shoved the letter back into the Book, and with the other I held the light to him. The man stood bathed completely in shadow so that all I saw of his was an ethereal outline; not exactly comforting in this seemingly haunted place. "Holmes, thank God! I worried"-

"What do you _deduce_?" He insisted.

"I _deduce _that running off the way you did was not only childish and stupid, but standing here such as we are is no better. I want to talk to you about"-

"Later," he replied. "What did my brother tell you?"

"He was as reluctant to speak as you," said I with some manner of blame. "But I saw the portrait of your family. I know that there was no love lost between your mother and yourself. And I know"-

"About my sister, no doubt."

"Yes…"

He came toward me so that I could truly see him for the first time. His jacket and waist coat were missing, and his cravat hung round his neck like a dishevelled noose. His boots and the cuffs of his trousers were caked in mud, suggesting that he had spent his evening engaging in anything but a casual walk. His hair hung in thick strands down his face, but as he came closer to me, I saw only the two iron-coloured eyes in a blanket of black. Reaching for my neck, he brought himself to me so hard that I nearly fell over. With hands that were like ice, he had in a matter of seconds divested me of all my upper garments, suffocating me with his kisses, all the while pushing me farther and farther back to at last I fell hard amidst a small cloud of dust on a mattress made mostly of metal coils.

"There is no need for concern," a voice said into my ear. "Brother Mycroft is a plethoric sleeper and would not waste the energy to leave his bed, truth be told, if even his suspected it being on fire."

"Yes, but"-

"What?"

"Is this entirely appropriate? Given that-well, the current state of things?"

"Watson!" The shadowy figure next to me hissed. I could smell, among the more usual smell of heavy shag, a distinct hint of something more toxic. "Do not waste an ounce of sympathy of that…_woman_, if indeed that is what she is. I have my doubts."

"Holmes! After all, she is your mother."

He grabbed my shoulder and held me down with a strength that surprised even me. "I do not want to discuss my mother Medea9! I want _you_! Now!"

I had never in my life seen him act like this. Totally on emotion (no doubt fuelled by something more sinister) and without an ounce of his great mind. He seemed to me possessed, perhaps by this house and a past that he still could not completely stop from haunting him. I did not want him like this. Dishevelled, drunk or drugged-up, disembodied. But at the same time, how could I leave him in such a state?

His hands, normally gifted and with a softness the belied the callous and stained exterior were now hard as granite. They reached around to rip free the flies of my trousers. "Roll over," he ordered and when I hesitated, he did it himself, burying his naked weight on top of me.

"Holmes, you are not yourself"-

But his only reply was to growl and push my head away. I feel I must say, here and now, that as badly as you will think of the man for what happened next, I must take some of the blame myself. Surely, I could have ended it if I had really desired to do so. Given what happened afterward, I should have. But alas, I did not.

I didn't think about what was happening, although of course I knew, but nothing could have prepared me for the pain that followed. I tried to prevent myself from yelling out, but failed miserably. The pressure was terrible, and my sad body was incapable of anticipating how terrible it would be. If there was any sympathy, or moreover comprehension from the possessed being of my friend, I knew it not. I thought to speak sense to him, but there really was no voice in me, nor any sense in him.

The pain that coursed through my spine was great, but like any hurt, one can eventually grow used to it, and after a moment I was able mentally to unclench my teeth. Perhaps if I could have applied the same technique to the rest of my body, I could have found it all less painful, even enjoyable, but in the suddenness, the fear, the rashness, the unloving of all these actions, I could not.

In an instant, it was over and I was rewarded with the sweetest release-of pain, that is. I knew immediately that I was bleeding-the flesh was weak and unyielding and I felt the small stream as it trickled down my thigh. But pain, physical pain that is, I was accustomed to, and tolerated easily. It was the pain in my heart that hurt me far more. What had just happened? More directly, _why _had it so?

I slowly made my way to my feet, seizing my dress shirt from where it was thrown and hurriedly dressed, as if for the first time realising the shame in nakedness. A distinct chill ran down and then up my spine, closing tightly in around me. I didn't dare speak, even as my eyes met those of Holmes. If I made the first move, I knew enough that I would have thrown all the strength I possessed into one blow across his face. Concern and fury argued for dominance in my shaking hands and trembling legs. I compelled him with my body to speak as we stood breathing heavily, facing each other, not really seeing. And at last he did.

"My God." He backed away from me, unsteady as a newborn calf, until his outstretched hand reached a chair and he collapsed into it. "My God…I've become him. God…God…after all, I _have _become him."

"Who? Who have you become?"

He looked up at me, but turned away almost immediately with vacant eyes and trembling chin. "The Colonel, of course. Colonel Aloysius Giffard Holmes. My father."

"Your father…why?"

No answer. Nothing.

"Holmes," I said at last in an unbearably tolerant voice. "I think it perfectly fair to say that I've been more than patient with you. I have been your loyal friend, assistant, even lover. I've given you fifteen years of my life, never asking for a thing in return. But I have to tell you now-if you do not tell me the entire story of," pausing, I tried to consider to word. Nothing fitting or brilliant came to me. "all of this bloody mess, then I am leaving you. Not just for awhile, but for good, mind. I…I really cannot stand this! And you have no right to keep it from me, Goddamnit! No right! Not from someone who loves you more than anyone else. _Anyone_. Do you know what I am confessing to? I care more for you than my child, my late wife, my poor mother who adored me. _You, _Holmes!" My lungs were on fire now as I had sputtered this entire impromptu in one breath. Panting, I slowly lowered myself back to the bed, which groaned under the weight. I wanted desperately for a drink.

Holmes rose, rubbing his hands methodically close to his chest. "I know," he whispered. "I know you do, don't you? I know you do. Oh, Watson…"

"Please. Do come and sit with me."

After a moment's hesitation, he did, reaching into his pocket first and handing me his flask. "I don't want your forgiveness," said the man, his eyes fixed on his own reflection in the steel container. "At least, I shall not ask for it."

"Nor do I offer it. I want an explanation. No, frankly, Holmes, I _demand _an explanation."

He merely scowled. "Why do you not leave this hideous place, doctor? It is what I would do where I in your shoes. Return to London, take the boy, and forever rid yourself of my corrupting and odious. You threaten it. Why not carry it out?"

"Is that what truly you wish me to do?"

"Oh, do be logical! Of course not."

"Then it is lucky for you that you are not _in _my shoes." I placed my hand on the sinewy arm, gently, but firm enough to make my point. "Now, this is what will happen. You will have a drink of whiskey with me. We will sit here together, the entire night if necessary. And you are going to tell me of this demon that has possessed your mind."

There was an endless pause, a moment seemingly frozen with he regarding the moor that howled and shifted out the window and through the shaft of the chimneys. "Please, my dear," said I softly. "If ever you've loved me."

"Love plays no part in this. This is more a matter of love verses trust. And if I've come to realise anything, it is that love is easy, trust is difficult."

"To understand you mean, or to put in action?"

"Both."

I laughed, momentarily forgetting the gravity of what had happened and what still was, for that matter. "Surely it must be the other way around, Holmes. After all, trust is easy enough to understand. But who can really explain the idea of love. Universally, I mean?"

Holmes sucked in a breath, tracing the outline of his monogram on the flask with one slightly shaking finger. He seemed to be studying it. Looking anywhere but at me, I suppose. "I think not, doctor. You are confusing the literal definitions with the practical purposes of the two. I will not argue the universality of love. That is a problem best left to some ancient Greek with too much time on his hands. But think of this way. Love is just a word invented for the selfish taking of what we require of others. Most parents love their children because they are proliferating their immortality. Love between lovers is the promise of physical needs met. Love between friends is intellectual or recreational in nature. Therefore to understand love one need only understand our own selfishness. Trust, however, is far different. Trust requires _selflessness_. It asks that one bare his soul to the point of nakedness and to stand there in all one's shame, relying on the charity and compassion of another. Why do we do this? Why risk it? I can say that I love one in the morning, and say that I no longer do by the evening, and no one could prove or disprove me. But trust is as real as you and I sitting here. It is incomprehensible, Watson!" He stopped after that impassioned speech, snatching the now mostly empty flask and downing the remains before he added in a softer voice: "I would rather have all of your trust, and none of your love, then all of your love and none of your trust."

To me, as I sat still trying to comprehend this whole thing, let alone if in my own mind I accepted it, I tried to think of something to reply. Until this very day, I think that in my immense loyalty for the man, I would have said without question that he had my complete and utter trust, no questions asked. But after this night, after seeing this dark side of his soul, I think I could not. "Holmes,"- I began.

His eyes pulled away sharply, as usual knowing what I was trying to say before I could say it. "Your word what I reveal to you will never be repeated, as long as I am of this Earth?" He asked, drastically changing the subject.

"Of course. My word of honour, as your…"

"Yes?"

Briefly, I forgot my anger and trepidation to allow a smile. "Your Boswell, of course."

Although he could not return my smile, he did nod in all the heavy veil of seriousness that surrounded us, and I bit my lip and leaned back, preparing my mind toward objectivity, for all I wanted to do was forgive him, tell him that whatever lay in his past I would pardon, and take him to my bed for the first night we could sleep in each other's arms without fear of being discovered. Instead, I was to be the first and only person Sherlock Holmes was to trust enough to at last relay all of the missing pieces of his shattered past…

1 A shore-inhabiting bird with a compact build and a short, hard-tipped bill

2 In case anyone wants to know, I based the Holmes house on a real house in Cornwall, called the Lanhydrock house. It has the potential to be pretty terrifying.

3 Genesis, of course, 2:18

4 One more little thing to mention. I chose Cornwall for the place Holmes grew up because it was where Jeremy Brett suggested the most likely place, because mostly of its isolation. If it's good enough for him, it's good enough for me.

5 Used ironically, for most people genuinely perceive the Cornish as gentile and welcoming

6 2.2.260

7 second, in America

8 Latin for deductive reasoning

9 Medea, as told by Euripedes, is a figure of Greek tragedy. To revenge her betrayed lover Jason, she kills her own two children with him.


	19. Chapter 19

_A/N: I have this thing for updating on the 18th, I guess. Anyway, this is actually one part of a longer chapter which will be up in only a week or so, rather than a month, and I hope that the flashbacks are not that confusing as I am not sure either holmesslash or will keep the right format. They are meant to be italicised but I'm not sure the form will stay. All things that begin and end with an are flashbacks. Thanks!_

It began with myself in the desk chair, and Holmes on the bed, some six feet of physical space separating us. That would change over the course of that night, but that is where it began. And Sherlock Holmes, in telling the story of his life, began at a spot before his own existence:

"To understand anything in my own life, it first must be understood the circumstances of my parents meeting and marrying. My mother was French, to speak of, or her people were. You know of course my grandmother was a Vernet. Well, she married into a different branch of the family, and so all my mother's people were Vernets as well. However, my grandfather feared for the safety of himself and new bride in the homeland with the revolution recently ending and the new Emperor1, so he moved his young wife to England and sided with his new country in the inevitable wars that commenced, making his views known publicly so that none could consider him disloyal. With all ties to France now severed, my grandparents then set to both building a family and obscurity. They soon had three daughters-all given English names and English educations, for my grandfather had the idea that if his children were going to survive it must be in an English world. All three daughters were intelligent, but the eldest and youngest of these young women, my aunts, were also gregarious and attractive. They were praised to my Grandfather Vernet, and so good marriages to wealthy gentlemen were planned."

"And so one guesses your mother was the middle of these daughters?" I interjected.

"Good, Watson. Indeed. So perhaps you yourself, as a middle child, can show some sympathy for her having neither the importance of being eldest nor the influence of being youngest."

"Perhaps…" I mused. Because although I was the favourite of my mother, I was hardly so to my father. I thanked for the first time then that I had but one child and no quandaries with favouritism, which so obviously impacted a child's path to adulthood.

Holmes continued, his voice rich and alive as is with any master of storytelling, despite the fact that for the first time he was illuminating his own mystery, rather than that of a strangers:

"My mother, Gertrude, was a plain female, both in feature and manner. She lacked the spark and charm that drove men to the sides of her sisters, but this did not perturb her. She preferred solitude as a girl, left to books and gardens, silent prayer and Bible study. Although her parents went regularly to chapel, they were no more Lord-loving than the average Londoner, Cornishman or even Parisian. They prayed most nights as a family and occasionally fell asleep over a particularly riveting section of Psalms. My grandfather especially was against his daughter's determination at a young age to enter a convent. He wanted good marriages for his children, as I said, which I gather he thought would separate him from any Napoleonic ties he may still have with family back in France. Unfortunately, the only family he could find was a mediocre family from just north of Cornwall called Holmes."

"The Holmes' were country squires; had enough money to be accepted but not enough to be noticed. My father's father was named Sherringford Holmes and although I never knew him, I knew of him. It was well known that he was an industrious, hard, military man, but despite his service to his country it is well rumoured he made money supporting the French during the Napoleonic wars, just as his father did during the American colonial war. It is ironic, really, when you think about it. My grandfather Vernet wanted nothing to do with those who were disloyal to England, and my father, an Englishman, was as treacherous as they come. He had two sons by his first wife, all three of whom died in a smallpox epidemic. Just three months later he married my grandmother and had four more sons, my father being the second of these. To shorten it all, I have no doubt that my father's upbringing was brutal, judging from what I hear of Sherringford Holmes, and three of the four sons entered military careers during the 30's. My father was the sort of man who would do so on the hope that a war would break out, and although he was a strong commander who rose quickly through the ranks, serving in minor skirmishes in both Africa and Australia, he never did get his major war. The chance to fully show his temperament. He left his regiment in '48, not realising that just six years later we would know the horror of Crimea."

"Thousands of men died in that war, Holmes. And not heroic battle deaths-why, in the winter of '54, men were starving and freezing to death in Sevastopol"-

"No doubt. So you will not be surprised to hear that both my father's younger brothers were killed at Balaklava-or shortly thereafter. My father was furious that he had missed his chance, but with a wife, two children and at more than forty years of age, he was not given his old commission back. But to get back on course-Sherringford had decided before the Crimean war that it was time for his son was decided to settle down with a respectable wife, and poor, unsuspecting Grandfather Vernet decided that a marriage contract with A.G. Holmes was preferable for Gertrude to life in a convent. And thus"- he waved a hand in the air. "It began."

"A marriage that begins under forced circumstances is not exactly propitious," said I.

"You have a great propensity for the obvious, my dear Watson. Sherringford bought the couple this very estate here in Cornwall, and at first it seems, they gave the impression of a normal family. They joined the church in Wadebridge, my mother making the two-hour trek twice a week and becoming one of its most important patrons. My father, on the other hand, while a reluctant participant on the day of rest, preferred to stay at home with his collection of military antiques, including the 40th light calvary from his military days. They stayed in his smoking room, recollecting the war, drinking large quantities of scotch, and occasionally stumbling about the moors shooting anything that moved. Whether this bothered my mother or she just ignored it, I cannot say, but somehow they managed to have two children in a relatively short period of time. My mother hired an elderly nurse, too feeble to fight my mother's demands of religious perfection, and I've no doubt that my sister had to care more for her than the other way around."

"And then they had a second son…"

His eyes glazed over, and clearing his throat, he inched slightly closer to me. "Yes…the son not meant to be, as it were."

"What, Holmes?"

"My father, Watson…King Claudius… his offense was rank and smelled to Heaven.2"

_"What story shall we hear tonight, children?"_

"_I like to hear about the baby Jesus' birth, Mama," said Philippa. "I like the part about the angel Gabriel and the shepherds. It's beautiful."_

"_I want Daniel! In the lion den!"_

"_Oh, not again, Mycroft! That's all you ever want to hear."_

"_That's alright, daughter," said Gertrude with a slightly remising look. "We shall hear the both of them."_

"_May I read, Mama? I love to read aloud."_

"_Of course. Turn to"-_

_Philippa jumped so suddenly she dropped the Book as the door banged against the frame and The Colonel stumbled in. "What the Hell's going on here?" His eyes, red-rimmed as they were fell to his wife. Inside Philly's stomach, something churned._

"_For Heaven's sake, watch your mouth, sir!" Gertrude slowly stood up, a little unsteadily, but assuredly enough. Philly could smell the throat-clenching alcohol as he advanced toward his wife and her stomach turned even more. She wanted to say something, but knew better. Instead, she sat perfectly still in her chair, trying not to breath. If she sat still enough, maybe she could be invisible._

"_Watch my mouth, eh, woman?"_

"_If you care to fill this house with filth of mind and body around those ruffians who frequent here, that is your concern. But you will not speak like that in front of my children!"_

"_Impudent bitch!" The Colonel's hand flew into the air._

"_Papa, no!" _

_Realising what she had done the second her father turned to her with clenched teeth, the girl felt fear-real fear-for perhaps the first time in her life. Her heart began to pound so loudly she could no longer hear. Her knees turned to melted butter, but she could not manage to sit. "Please…"_

"_Out! Get out, now!" He growled. _

_And suddenly, Philippa could move. Without even realising she was doing it, she tugged her brother by the hand so hard he nearly fell over and ran from the room. Dragging Mycroft behind her, she didn't stop until she was in the nursery, the door slammed behind her. It was several long seconds before she could even think about speaking. Or even breathing._

"_Philly…"_

"_Hush!" She put a finger over her brother's mouth, and turned to put her ear against the door. 'what are you doing, A.G…stop…prudish woman…you think only God is good enough for your body…you will deny me no more…stop…you're hurting me…"_

_The girl quickly turned around and backed away from the door. For the first time, she noticed their nurse in the corner, dozing in one hand, making a honking sort of noise. She could not think what was happening in the other room. She could not think about her father, out of his mind with drink. She could not think of that look on his face, the red pallor, the crusted lips and blood-shot eyes. She loved him. He was a good man. A hero. "Are they fighting?"_

_Philippa jumped before realising that it was only Mycroft. He looked up at her with his own fear, the fear of a six-year old who could not understand what she had to, just three years older. "Yes," she told him because she could what she feared the truth._

"_Papa was drunk."_

"_Yes."_

"_Why?"_

"_How am I supposed to know, Mikey? Because sometimes Papas are drunk, I suppose."_

"_But why was he so cross?"_

_All the girl could do was look at him in complete innocence. Despite his intelligence, all she could see in that moment was the dark curls, the watery grey eyes and the plump cheeks. She could not help but think something had happened. Something that would never be given back. "I'm afraid I don't know, darling." And that was all she would say. _

I hadn't realised it, but sometime during that memory, I had removed myself from the hard desk chair, and was sitting next to my friend on the bed. My hand was in his, and we both seemed to be sweating. My tongue was thick and swollen, although I swear I wanted to say something. But what on Earth does one say after something such as this?

"You see now. You see what my Father did. And…"

"You are not like him!" I blurted suddenly. "Not at all!"

"I was not meant to be, Watson!" He glared as if it were my fault he felt this way, jumping to his feet and stuffing his hands in his trouser pockets. "It isn't even that I was an accident, the result of some promiscuous tart or bastard millionaire…if it were an accident everything could be explained…but who can explain rape?"

"It isn't as though it is your fault. And you needn't have an explanation for everything." I held my hand out to him, hoping against hope that he could take leave of his senses for a moment and take it.

He did at least look at it. But his hands stayed where they were. "I'm afraid I do."

_It had been unreasonably warm for weeks, but the night the pains began, the weather turned harsh and bitter. The wind howled like the Hounds of Hell. And in her chamber, the woman howled along with it._

"_You mustn't push yet," the mid-wife told her, squeezing her damp palm. "The babe is not ready."_

_Gertrude felt the pain pierce through her. It wasn't even located anywhere. After two births, she was familiar enough with this ritual. She thought she knew now where the pain was supposed to be; how severe it should be, and most importantly, how long it should last. The pains had begun a full day ago. 24 long hours. And still the babe was not ready. Another stabbing pain shot through her entire body, and Gertrude could not help but scream. It was punishment. There was no other explanation for it. God saw the sin._

_In the nursery, the young girl sat with her brother, watching the storm. Or rather, she watched it while he picked at the remains of their supper, trying to make it look as though he weren't. _

"_Isn't it horrible, Mikey?" She asked him, as a bolt of lightening illuminated the fields beyond the house to silver and blue. "I do love a thunderstorm. It's so…exciting and nearly wicked."_

_Mycroft stuffed a piece of trifle into his mouth and glowered. "It's just weather. Cold and warm fronts and barometric pressures. I don't see anything exciting. And don't call me 'Mikey.'"_

"_Now don't be bitter," his sister reprimanded. "Just because Mother is going to have another baby."_

"_I'm not bitter! I don't care how many babies Mother has. Besides, that's what Mothers are supposed to do." He was an obstinate seven-year old, and brilliant, as were both children. But he had yet to learn to hide his feelings, and Philippa, who spent more time with him than any person, knew nearly always what he was feeling. _

"_It's alright to be jealous, darling."_

"_I am not jealous!"_

_At ten, Philippa was already terribly grown-up. It was expected of her, but she would have been anyway. Mycroft was her responsibility most of the time. The nurse was old, always sick, and could not have corralled a boy of Mycroft's age and cunning even at her peak. But Philippa loved the responsibility. There were no other children near by, and she was looking forward to having another sibling to care for and play with. "I hope that it's a girl," she said. "I would so love a sister."_

"_I don't care what it is." Mycroft snatched the remains of the chicken and shovelled it in his greedy mouth. "Besides, wishing cannot make it so. It's science that determines it a boy or girl."_

"_Oh, really? Than perhaps you would explain it to me?" Philippa smiled at him, and he had to turn away, flushing slightly._

"_Well…I don't really know. But it is science, anyhow."_

"_You think everything can be determined by science. And you are only disagreeing with me about everything because you feel jealously at not being youngest anymore."_

"_No, I don't!"_

_"Her labour has been more than a day now," the mid-wife said aside to the sister. "She cannot take much more."_

"_Has someone sent for the doctor?"_

_She shook her head. "No one could get through this storm. And it's only getting worse, I fear."_

_The sister was unsure whether she meant the weather or the labour._

_Gertrude no longer could hear them. The mid-wife had been with her for hours now, and she vaguely remembered the sister showing up when the complications arose. Where was the doctor? Was there even a doctor? Why was she here? _

_Why was God testing her like this?_

_Was it because she had agreed to marry, instead of becoming a servant of God? She should have stood up to her father. And her husband._

_This pain was punishment._

_This child was punishment._

"_Gertrude! Gertrude!"_

_She could no longer feel anything. The pain seemed to flow away, and she went with it. She was back in her childhood, the last time she could remember being completely happy. It was in the garden, surrounded by the flowers and trees, all in bloom. Everything was simple, warm and happy. The world seemed a place that God would create. A place for his children to live in peace._

_How had all that changed?_

"_Gertrude…try to stay here, with me! It's almost over now…"_

Holmes paused then, lighting first a cigarette for me and then one for himself. "I was doomed, you see, from the start. My mother thought me to be a punishment from God. Not only did the labour nearly kill her, but I was in fact, male, and she…I suppose in her own distorted mind thought these to be signs. In fact, if not for my sister…"

"What?" I asked.

"Well, just days after my birth, the old nurse died. She was ancient and had been ill for months. And while Father tried to find another, my entire care was left to Philippa. Mother was still terribly ill…she nearly died, and was in no state to care for an infant. It is uncertain what would have become of me if not for her."

"Well, surely some arrangements would have been made…you're not suggesting…"

"My father," he interrupted. "Had already two children, including a son, so I really had little importance. My mother was on her deathbed for weeks. The nurse was dead. There was no one to care for me. It has happened before. Taken in the dead of night to town…placed in an orphanage or with some childless family."

"Oh…oh, of course." I sucked heavily on my cigarette, not bothering to tell him what I had thought him to mean. He had used the word dead, but I had thought of it in a completely different context.

_"Isn't he beautiful, Papa? He is the most beautiful baby I've ever seen."_

"_He looks like a Holmes." The colonel regarded the babe his daughter held with arms behind his massive chest. "Most assuredly he does. Just see to his needs, daughter, until a new nurse can be sent forth."_

"_Yes, Papa. I'll be glad to."_

"_You've only ever seen one other baby," said Mycroft gruffly, glaring. "Me."_

"_Yes, and I remember it well, Mikey. You were a very red and fat baby. Not at all like him."_

_And Mycroft's face did indeed get rather red in his fury at this but seeing his father, he immediately thought it best to not say anything. The colonel looked to his portly other son, a heavy gaze of a man regarding an inferior officer. "Mind your sister, Mycroft."_

_The boy looked down, trying to not sound afraid. "Yes, sir."_

"_Papa," Philippa called after him as he left the nursery. "What will he be called?"_

_Mycroft had been named after a fellow soldier in his father's old regiment, Lieutenant Danforth Mycroft, a good friend of A.G. Holmes who had fallen died of dysentery in India. It was difficult for the man to think of anything else but his military career, so it surprised no one that his first born son bore the name of a fellow officer. And it would also surprise no one that this boy would as well. "This one," said he. "Shall be named after my first superior officer-a man to whom I owe my existence and everything I may have learned in the military. His name was Sherlock. Colonel William Scott Sherlock. And so he shall be christened Sherlock Holmes."_

_Philly smiled down at the babe, who was sleeping like an angel, just hours old. He was a healthy child despite the labour he'd subjected his mother to, and Philippa had already decided from the moment she saw the wet eyes, the cheese-coated skin and the sticky head of hair that he was to be hers. He was a special baby, and her own. _

"_I think it's a daft name," said Mycroft. "And he smells."_

"_Do shut up, Mikey. You'll disturb him. And please stop acting so hateful."_

_As he sulked off into a corner with his copy of Dalton's__3__ 'New System of Chemical Philosophy', Phillipa rocked little Sherlock, whose small body fidgeted and whined softly. "Hush, little one. Your Philly is here. I'll keep you safe, I promise. For you are my own little darling."_

The room was now inundated with smoke, and I had been forced to put out my own cigarette just to be able to breath. Holmes showed not the least signs of stopping, especially since the flask was now bone dry. "My mother was nearly a year in recovering from my birth," said my friend, pacing about the room creating thick poisonous trails after him. "Although I never did uncover the reason why, I am under the impression she never really did recover fully. Physically. And most certainly she did not emotionally. Whatever hope there was for her and I was erased by 26 hours hard labour, dangerous amounts of blood lost and ten pounds of child4 passing through a small woman."

"It is a wonder the both of you survived. There is little that can be done when the child's head is simply too large to fit through the cervix…"

"Yes, I am aware of the process, doctor. Also the mortality rates."

"How long was your sister left to raise you then?"

With that, he smiled. "My entire childhood, Watson. Several nurses were brought in over the next three years, but Mother easily found fault with all of them, and saw them terminated. I spent the first four years of my life hardly allowed to leave the nursery, for my sister had to attend to her own lessons for most of the day, and I myself was to young to join in. It was however, a blessing in disguise, for whenever my sister was not with me, I would read and learn of this confusing world. Soon enough I learned that it was not hard to learn things first hand, if only a little… assiduousness was applied." He stopped suddenly, his eyes flashing back and forth rapidly. "In fact, it was this cunning that was the inception of one day that ways heavily on my mind."

_The boy, who was only seven years, opened the very heavy oak door tentatively. His hands were sweating, but he knew it was not do to the August heat-wave that was killing all the flowers in the gardens. His heart pounded noisily against his ribcage when he saw her seated behind her white desk. He heard the fire crackling and smelled the heat even before he stepped into the room._

_He knew what would come next._

_She caught him in her heavy dark gaze. "Come in, boy."_

_He took one last breath of breathable air and stepped in with head held high. She would never humble him. Even at seven years of age, he knew this. In the end, she never would break his spirit._

"_You have been at it again, haven't you?" His mother said. "Against my known wishes. You are still doing it."_

_He knew of course exactly what she meant. Standing a little straighter, he stared at the moving pendulum of the wall clock behind her. The one thing he did like about this room was that clock. It never stopped moving. He appreciated the reliability and steadiness of it._

"_Well, what say you?"_

_He said nothing._

"_Answer me, insolent pup!"_

"_Yes, mater." He still did not look._

"_Yes, mater, what?' What does 'yes' mean?"_

"_It means I have been still doing it, ma'am."_

_She reached round to slap him hard across the cheek. It stung for a second, but then went away. Sherlock retained his posture, and again his eyes stayed on the clock. "You shall keep a civil tongue in your head boy, or I'll remove it. Am I understood?"_

_She would do it, too. The Book said that if the rod was spared, the child would be spoiled. What it did not say was what should happen if the child was already spoiled. If he came contaminated as a mouldy hunk of bread or a bit of sour milk from the day he arrived on the planet. And this latest infraction of the ever growing charter of behaviour for the unwanted second son of Gertrude Holmes was a common one: using the mind that her own God had given him. Observing. Deducing. Seeing all that went on in his own house. But according to the Mother, this was equivalent to spying. He was a sneak. A snoop._

_And there were the things that were happening that did not take much deduction. His father, the colonel (known only as 'the colonel') often had people to the house who used to serve under him. Sherlock knew that he could squeeze his thin body into a small cupboard in the colonel's smoking parlour and if he was still, would not be heard. There was something calming and natural about this place-the darkness, the controlled breathing, the straining to hear every word. Sherlock could lean his head against the cool wood and hear the men discuss all sorts of things that he knew a boy his age should not hear-but of course that made it all the more exciting. The battles, the diseases, the wounds, the fear and the killing…in truth, it was not so much what they would say it was that he could hear them say it. He was in control. _

_But one day, he had come to discover that there were other things to smell in that cupboard besides heavy tobacco. Other things to see besides a thin line of light illuminating middle-aged bearded men. Other things to hear besides the tedious stories of battles and fellow soldiers long lost. This time, the only voice he recognized was the colonel, his father. But there was another voice. A soft voice, a voice that slipped over vowels like water over the sand, and had a certain air of sophistication about it. But what she said, what he heard was anything but. _

_The boy Sherlock knew what was going on, or at least had enough of an idea that he suddenly felt very hot. He knew it was bad. That was enough to know. At first, he threw his head back against the side of his hiding place, too afraid to look. His throat was dry and for the first time in this place of power, he felt only trapped. He wanted to burst free, to run from that room, that house, the entire estate. He thought that maybe if he didn't stop running, then everything might be alright. But that was totally illogical. He already knew, and it was impossible to just forget something so significant once you saw it._

_After 30 seconds, the curiosity and the dark got the better of him, and he had to look through the crack. The colonel and a woman whose face he could not see were bent over his father's desk. Sherlock liked his desk. It was made of heavy mahogany and had brass inlays. The cornice was designed to look like rope and the carving swirled down both sides into a perfect circle. In the centre of the circle was the same English lion that donned the colonel's ring-also the Holmes family coat of arms. Sherlock liked the perfection of the thing. The way the sun could reflect off the brass, the way a finger could be traced over every wave in the rope cornice. The way even the teeth of the lion were sharp. _

_The colonel's leg covered most of the lion now, and the woman's dress hung just over it, covering the creature's teeth. The colonel and his massive frame were on top of the woman, growling and pushing against her. Sherlock swallowed hard, sure that he was killing her. It certainly looked like it. But there was something to her screams, something to the way she reached up to run her fingers through his greying hair that made him think that she was enjoying it. The boy watched as his father made a terrible noise in the back of his throat, slammed against the woman so hard that the desk moved and then stopped, breathing hard enough to suggest heart failure._

"_Oh, A.G.," the woman said after several seconds. "I hate it to be this way."_

"_Out. Use the servant's door." The colonel straightened his trousers and tie, and motioned toward the hall._

_If the woman was offended, it did not show. She arranged her dress and smoothed her hair, before wordlessly slipping out of the room. The colonel also said nothing, but as the second she stepped out of the room, he called her back. With eyes that were heavy and clouded he said, "Next Friday, my dear?"_

_The woman smiled as if something incredible had just occurred. "Of course, A.G."_

_The boy had never heard another call his father by his Christian name, or at least initials, before. Everyone he had observed called him either 'sir' or 'colonel.' Even his mother, the two times he could recall overhearing her speak to him, called him 'husband.' No one called him A.G._

_Because the colonel spent the next hour and fourteen minutes first covering up any traces of his crime, and then sitting at his desk and writing some papers. The boy thought he might suffocate having to sit there in the dark heat, trying desperately to not breath too loudly, trying with all his mind to recite square roots in his mind to steady it._

_The mother knew, of course. And more importantly, she knew the boy knew. She could not stop her husband. There was nothing she could do to him. Confronting him would change nothing. She knew also that there would be little sympathy from any friends, relatives or the church. There would be no denial from her. She would not deny reneging on her wifely duties. It was a sin, she knew. But what he had done surely was the greater sin._

_So the colonel's son stood before her now, looking very much like A.G. Holmes, and she had understood from the moment of his birth that he was a punishment from God. He was a test of her true faith._

_The boy might have suspected this time would be different. He was an excellent judge, even at that tender age. The mother looked at him oddly-with not only the usual superior contempt, but with something else this time. Young Sherlock sought to find the name for it, but there did not appear to be one. It was nearly akin to curiosity, which would have been surprising and frightening. It seemed as if she were deciding what limits he may have; what new ways of torture could be derived. What new satisfaction could be gained by making the son suffer for the sins of the father._

"_Pick up the Book," she ordered the boy, and he begrudgingly complied. He was too afraid not to._

_He started in Ecclesiastes for no other reason than it was near the middle and the book was easier to balance that way. He was directly in front of the white desk where the mother sat was cold eyes staring at the boy. It was the very spot seven years and nine moths previous that he had come into creation, although he knew it not. It would be years before he would deduce the horrific circumstances of his conception. All he knew right then was that his lungs burned and the back of his neck was already saturated with sweat._

"For in much wisdom is much grief: and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow. I said in mine heart, Go to it now.."

_He looked up nervously. It would do no good to pretend that the mistake did not occur. The mother missed nothing. Swallowing hard, he tried to avoid looking at her. He took one step closer to the fire. Closer to Hell, as it were_

_The hours passed, and every opportunity the boy had to glance at the faithful old clock he took. His mouth soon grew completely dry and judging by the shadows in the room, he had missed both tea and luncheon. Supper would soon pass as well. It was unlike her to keep him this long. Usually a few hours of punishment were enough, and he would be released in time for supper. Something was terribly wrong. _

_Philippa was his only hope. The mother might keep him here all night. Or maybe for the rest of his life._

"Hear, O heavens, and give ear, O earth: for the LORD hath spoken, I have nourished and brought up children, and they have rebelled against you5…me."

_Sweat dripped from his forehead. He was now directly in front of the fire. He could feel the smoke penetrate his skin, burn into his lungs. The sparks jumped and bit at him. And still she forced him to keep reading. His knees were shaking, and it was not from fear._

_Suddenly, the clock spun round on its end and the room took on a reddish haze. The next thing the boy knew, he was screaming and in terrible pain. It felt like someone had taken a knife and tried to slice his arm off. When he looked at it, his shirt sleeve was black and the skin above his elbow bright red and already blistering. _

"_You fool!" The mother said, setting the Book with a now singed cover carefully on her white desk. "Do you care nothing for sacredness?"_

"_Sherlock!" The boy looked through his pain to see his sister come rushing in and fall to the floor next to him. "I heard screaming. What on Earth…" her gaze fell from her brother's wound to her mother's glower. Good God, Mama, would have you done to him?"_

"_You will watch how you speak to me, daughter!"_

"_Mama!" Philippa exclaimed. "Please! He is only a child! He is your child!" Sherlock, still moaning with pain, looked up at his mother, trying to see if there was any concern, any emotion, anything at all. If there was one person who could talk sense to her, it was Philippa. But despite his tender age, the boy knew that it was futile. There was not then, nor would there ever be, any love between them. And whatever hope the boy may have had that one day his mother may see through her anger, possibly even love him, was lost forever with her next words. Sneering, the woman motioned them out. "This is the work of the Lord, my daughter. I act merely as a vessel for Him. And He knows the truth."_

_She looked right at Sherlock when she said this. And the searing pain in his arm increased. _

_Philippa could think of nothing to say. What words could exist that could be said? "Come along, darling," she whispered to her brother. "I'll take care of you."_

_Sherlock gritted his teeth to keep the tears out of his eyes while his sister dressed the burns on his upper arm. He knew enough that when one was able to take their mind off the situation, it helped with the pain. However, at that moment, there were only two things he was able to concentrate on-his mother and his arm. He was uncertain as to which hurt more._

"_Philly?" He asked._

"_Yes, darling?"_

"_Why does Mother hate me?" No, perhaps that was not the right question. 'Hate' was too spurious a word. It implied too much emotion. But he could think of no better word._

"_She doesn't hate you, darling…"_

"_Of course she does!"_

"_Sherlock, hold your arm still!" She sighed, seeing the wounded look in her brother's eyes despite his apathetic appearance. "My dear, it isn't at all that Mama hates you…" she knew of course, what it really was. She had been ten years old, after all, and far too observant to not be able to speculate what had happened between her mother and father. And poor Sherlock, the result, was also handed all the blame. It was unfair, of course, but Philippa could also see the other sides. Her mother could see only the sin of sex, and naturally saw this male child who looked so much like his father as punishment, while of course her father was not going to be refused by his own wife. _

"_It is completely obvious that she must hate me," said Sherlock coldly. "She doesn't treat either you or Mycroft in the same manner as me"-_

"_Myself."_

"_Myself, then…so it is reasonable to assume that she has reason to hate only me, but…dash it, Philly, why? I can't think of why! Surely there must be a reason! Everything must have a reason!"_

"_Calm down, darling," said his sister soothingly her hand on his now wet cheek. "I will tell you…"_

"_You do know!"_

"…_when you are older. Not now. So please don't persist," she put her finger to his lips the instant his mouth opened to protest, "for I won't change my mind. I know how intelligent you are, and I am proud of you for it, but there are still things that I will not allow you to be ready to hear. And this is one of them."_

_The boy frowned, hating both her evasiveness and the fact that she obviously would not trust him. But in all the world, he knew that she was the only person who loved him. And certainly she was the only person he loved. He could forgive these transgressions from only her. "Will you play your violin for me?"_

_She took his hand with a smile. "I would be proud to." _

"Good God…" I mused the instant he paused. I had been rubbing my chin all the while he'd been speaking without realising it, my attention total and wrapt. I had tried to fit the actions that Holmes was describing with my own images of this woman based on the photograph, and although they fit, I still felt shocked. My own mother was the epitome of the loving mother, especially to myself. "How could anyone do such a thing to their own child?"

Holmes starred at me sideways with his mouth slightly agape as if he did not comprehend my question. "I suppose…she did not see me as her child. I was the result of everything that she did not want in her life. A forced marriage, an unsympathetic husband, a doubting Thomas…" he smiled then, but I knew that it was just repression6. Even to a man who had learned thirty years of blocking memories and emotions, it still could not be completely without pain. To love one's mother and expect it returned was natural, and when something occurred to obstruct this love, it must be a pain like no other. "Well, Watson…you now know the relationship between Gertrude Holmes and her younger son. Does it explain anything?"

"A great deal…but what of your sister? What happened to her?"

He sat slowly back on the bed next to me. "I'm not sure…forgive me, Watson…but I am not sure I wish to…relive it. To remember it is painful enough for me, but to have to tell it…"

"Do not concern yourself," said I, placing my hand on his cheek. "You have trusted me enough for one night." His words had an attentive quality to them, and in my sudden realisation that this was the end for now, I felt equally as sudden an instant exhaustion. Having learned of the events that shaped a life, or indeed a family, for all of these years in only a few hours, my brain rebelled against taking anymore in. And if my own mind was nothing but weary, I could but imagine how the raconteur of all this felt.

"What hour is it?" he asked softly.

"Nearly four."

"Then we have time for a few hours rest, I think. We needn't rise before half past seven, and if you'll forgive me, I am spent. Will you stay with me here?"

This bed was even harder than what I had spent the previous night on, but this time I was too tired to think of protestations or complaint. Nodding, I lay my sore self down on the thin mattress and took the only pillow for myself.

Holmes yawned loudly and like a babe with his mother, laid his head upon my chest. There was something warm and comforting that emerged within my to see this, so I allowed it. The contented look upon his face was nearly childlike. I was compelled to reach my arm around to rest it on him. The anger of earlier was not forgotten, but at least temporarily suspended. It could have been the exhaustion, or the warmth of his body against mine, or the security I suddenly realised my own childhood had contained, but I was physically and mentally unable to feel anger over what had occurred.

His shirt had remained unbuttoned and for a moment I watched his bare chest as it moved up and down. In a sudden move, I freed his arm and even in the near dark of the room I saw for the first time a puckered scar of some considerable length on the upper left arm I never had noticed before. The burn must have been serious enough, and Holmes was extremely lucky to have not been hurt more severely.

"What do you think, Watson?"

I knew in an instant what was meant. "I think that if I hadn't known you would overcome it, I would pity you."

"Ah! Then I am glad. It's not your pity I desire."

My forgiveness, of course, is what he desired above all else. My trust, complete in form, was also what he needed. I was unsure I could ever give the two of them in that form again. Time would tell, I suppose.

"I know what you desire, my dear. But…it cannot be as yet. You have my loyalty and love. Will that suffice?"

Lord, that at that moment I wanted to give him all that he wanted of me. A great man who at last shows weakness in hard to resist. My eyes raised to the picture of The Betrayal above me, and in the dark, the outline of Lucifer on fire glistened as if alive, forcing me to look away. "However did you manage to live with that thing as a child? It's disturbing enough to an adult…"

"Just…don't see it," said he, now nearly asleep. Wearily, he opened an eye and reached his hand out toward my cheek, only to collapse it in his exhaustion. "It cannot touch you…"

I myself had my doubts as to that. If such a thing as Hell existed, or existed in a place other than Earth (Holmes long insisted the only Hell was the West End of London in January), I could not profess that in my sinful human condition, I would not end up in eternal damnation. I knew that my love for Holmes, or at least my actions, were worthy of a soul sent to Purgatory, but still that seemed not enough to stop me. If fate was more powerful than sin…well, I held my hopes to that belief.

I kissed him then, but soft, not enough to wake him. We then both slept the sleep of angels, peacefully for a change, God forgive. For a few hours, I was able to forget all the tarnishes to my soul and see only the good.

1 Napoleon, of course, who crowned himself emperor in 1805

2 Actually, 'O, my offense it rank, it smelled to Heaven.' Hamlet again, 3.3.36.

3 John Dalton (1766-1844) is one of the founders of modern science and chemistry. Holmes would have no doubt been a big fan.

4 Are British babies weighed in grams or pounds? I've seen things that suggest both.

5 Isaiah 1:2

6 The term 'defence mechanism' was not in play yet (1913 or so) but that is what I…er, Watson really means.


	20. Chapter 20

A/N: Well, it was close to a week anyway…

I awoke when the sun had barely risen the next morning, a reddish light heavy on my eyes and a warm sensation making me sweat slightly. My arm had long since lost all feeling, as had the left of my chest. I then knew what happens when one is used as a pillow for an entire night.

Holmes was still asleep, and although it was early, and I had had far less sleep then I would have preferred, I knew that there was no more that night. Yesterday had been a day that forever would be burned into my mind. I was counting on this day to relieve the burden of it.

Leaving my friend were he lay, I crept to my own chamber where I had supposedly spent the night. I heard below me the rattling and chatting of people, so I knew that I was not the first up, but from Mycroft's room there was noise, so I figured there was little chance he knew anything but what I intended. The house itself was cool and peaceful, seemingly unaware that it would play host to a death this very day. It lacked the long shadows and dark corners of the evening that made it so much more haunted. Yet now knowing what I did of its history, it seemed strange it did not look more so to me.

The first thing I noticed in the room was that my black worsted suit was laid upon the bed. Because I had not even packed my own bag, (Holmes had taken care of that for me), it had not occurred to me that if I had, I would have looked quite out of place in grey travelling tweeds at a funeral. I smiled in spite of myself as I ran the water for a bath. I wasn't sure what exactly to do. Scorching myself in the soothing hot water seemed a start, but beyond that, I couldn't think. There was so much to think about what I now knew, yet still so much I did not know. The morning was a paradox.

I had supposed that the house might look different in the early reds and oranges that is a Cornish morning. Although it was October and winter was upon London already, here the morning was far more like early fall. The air was cleansing and crisp, whistling across the moors and my still damp skin. The moorish grasses swayed in the breeze and I could even hear the excitable 'chi-ow' of Cornish choughs. Everything could have easily felt anew and unstained, if I allowed it.

Not entirely sure where I was going, but feeling the need to soak in as much of this morning air as possible, I started down the Elm lined drive, just in time to hear a voice calling from behind.

"Hallo, Dr. Watson!"

Surprisingly enough, it was Mycroft Holmes. His large frame closed in on me quickly for such a large man, and I tried to recover from my surprise in seeing him out and about, taking in any exercise at all. According to his brother, he was immensely adverse to such principals. But without any question, I bade him a good-morning and stopped to wait.

"You are up earlier than I would have expected," said the man when he reached me. "I take it then that you followed my advice."

"Your advice?"

"Yes. To proposition my brother into telling you of himself and our mother."

"Oh…yes…rather. How did you know?"

Mycroft smiled. It was a very familiar expression. "Come and take a stroll with me, doctor." He motioned down the drive, cuffing me fiercely on the back. "He obviously must have come back, as I assured you he would, otherwise you would have immediately asked me to help you find him. What did Sherlock tell you?"

"The truth," I said, without really thinking what that meant. Was it the truth? If Mycroft told it to me, would it have the same effect? Or was it designed to elicit sympathy…especially given the fact that he certainly needed my sympathy at the time? But although I still feared I was still learning what he was capable of, both good and bad, I had to admit to myself that fabricating his early life in such a way was not something he would do. "I can see now why your mother's death caused him no pain. Why someone did not step in to stop her, I just cannot see."

Mycroft snorted. "I can see now that what I expected has come to pass. Manipulation has always been my brother's strongest emotion."

I stopped immediately. "I beg your pardon?" I said to him. "Are you suggesting that he is manipulating me? I say, that really is unfair of you!"

"Oh, come now, Dr. Watson! You may think you have the monopoly on my brother, but never forget that I have known him far longer! And I know that he has a way of living his life-all manners of his life-that are very narcissistic . He forgets that there are others that have needs, others that service this world, others that suffer, even!"

"I'd say, sir, that whatever pain you feel at the death of your mother does not begin to make up for the pain he is in now, and has been since the day he was born!"

His face was beginning to turn the colour I had so taken pleasure in just a few moments previous. "And I will have you know, sir, that while I do not condone my mother's treatment of my brother, or omit the tremendous grief Philippa's death caused, it is totally inequitable to even suggest he is the only one to suffer by it!"

"What on Earth are you talking about?"

He stopped and actually looked me in the eye in a way that was dissonantly unnerving. "I did not intend this to be my story," said he in a slow method of speech that was very un-Holmes like. "For whatever trust my brother has developed…well, I mean no offence, I know you are a gentleman to be trusted, but it is not my way. For so long my career and life have depended on discretion. But Jane…dear, sweet Jane…no one could know…"

'_The glorious rose was pure and perfect in front of him. Mycroft knew that with he at seventeen and her at sixteen, the marriage would still be several years off. He would go to University first, see the world through the streets of London and then either return to Cornwall and take up landowning or some other quiet life. He and Jane would raise several children and he would be able to live without interruption. He had always assumed his true path lay towards the government-a junior post at first but later on the House of Commons. His mind was created for such._

_But no longer. Her gentle voice and lily white skin…he saw his life laid out in front of him. It was glorious._

_Mycroft flinched at a sharp jab to his ribs, and turned slowly back toward the vicar, avoiding the hawk-like omniscience of his mother. In the Davies' pew, a similar gesture found Jane Davies also returning to the sermon. Mycroft swallowed hard, but found it impossible both in mind and body to think on the ramblings of Romans, of which it seemed although only on the twelfth, there was no end to the chapter. The beautiful form of the only one he would ever love kept reappearing his mind'._

It was inconceivable. Mycroft Holmes in love? I could not even imagine him as a young man, let alone a lustful, typical sort of chap. "I admit I fail to see the connection," I said to him. "How did the death of your sister…"

"Jane was the sister of James Davies," he interrupted. "My sister's husband. When Philippa died, my mother…well, both she and Father blamed Davies for her death, although of course, the irrationality of that is obvious. I was forbade to ever see Jane again, lest I lose all familial ties…It is something that is harder to contemplate when one is seventeen. Were I that same man today…" he stopped, and we continued to walk again, this time in silence, back toward the estate. I felt as though I should offer my condolences, but knew that were I to do so, it would sound trite and condescending, so I said nothing. And neither did Mycroft, who seemed to have lost a step or two in that stroll, at least until we were back in the courtyard between the two wings. Suddenly, he grabbed my arm and pointed.

"Look to the north, doctor. In the distance, do you see that mound of earth? You cannot miss it really, just beyond the moors?"

"Yes"-

"That's called Brown Willy. It's 1377 feet tall, the highest point in all Cornwall. When we were children, Sherlock told me more than once that he intended to climb it and live at the top when he was grown. He always said that he wanted to go to high places…presumably so he could view the world from on top. The irony is, it is he who puts everyone else atop a pedestal. Everyone including himself. I worry to this day if the judgement will be favourable." He gave me a stern look and for a moment I thought myself back in school with a strict master. "Keep that in mind, sir."

"Do you worry about his judgement of himself or yourself?"

Mycroft chuckled although I saw no humour in it. "I see the world in a very different way from my brother. People are black and white, composed of statistics and data. They exist only from afar. That is how I survive. But Sherlock is different and always has been. Unfortunately for my brother, he sees mankind not just in shades of grey, but full spectrum. I appreciate that it cannot be easy to view the world in this manner, surrounded by demons, both inner and external. That is why it is important he has you…a companion to share this burden with."

"Yes…I know."

"You will see to it that Sherlock comes this morning? I am counting on you, doctor."

"Of course."

"Then I have preparations to make…thank you for listening, Dr. Watson. I want you to know…" he paused with a frown, these declarations obviously very unfamiliar to such a man. "I think of you as the best of men. And also, should you ever have need of knowing what I fear Sherlock will not tell you, may I suggest you look up a George LeStrade of Scotland Yard?"

"What…LeStrade! What do you mean?"

"Only that there is one case my brother will never take…and so I think that if you were to talk to this LeStrade, he may be of some assistance should you want to." He bowed his head slightly and headed into the left wing of the estate. He seemed to think that he had cleared something up, rather than obscure everything far further.

'The day of the wedding was one that even ten-year old Sherlock did not expect ever to bear witness to. It was done at the bride's home, for which he was grateful. He did not think he would have been successful avoiding various relations in a strange home.

_He would have stayed locked away in his room, or better yet, lost on the moors with his own thoughts if he were allowed, but Gertrude would never have accepted such a thing. Philly had wanted him in the ceremony itself, to walk down the aisle as her court page and hold her train but he had refused. Suffering through losing her from a hard wooden chair was one thing, participating in the atrocity was another. Jane Davies stood next to her, and Mycroft, though barely seventeen, was the groomsman._

_She looked beautiful. Ever so beautiful that day. In a dress of white organdy and yards of delicate lace, her train stretched for miles and a thin veil covered her face. In her hands was a bouquet of orange blossoms, the only bit of colour on an otherwise snowy virgin goddess. But if she were a goddess, it was not a beautiful white one Sherlock saw. She was like Artemis. Protector of the forest and children, slayer with silver arrows. That was his sister._

_They repeated the words of promise that would unite them for as long as they both lived, and Sherlock felt suddenly nauseous. But he knew better than to run in the middle of the ceremony. The wrath of the mother would be very great for an offence such as that, so he sat perfectly still suffocating outwardly in his velvet suit, and inwardly as well. Just as he used to when in his father's smoking room. If only he could hide like that now._

_Philippa and James finished vowing their lives to one another, and her veil was lifted. The vicar announced the couple, and James leaned in to take her by the mouth with a subtle smile. _

_He could not imagine that. All the guests had risen to throw rice at the new couple as they left the chapel. Philippa was not quite as happy as she looked. Her gloves were twisted, and it was not a genuine smile she wore. Although she was not supposed to look at the family as she and her husband departed, she stole a look in his direction__1__. He knew she had been distracted that morning. Distracted by what, he told himself he did not know, but it was a lie. He knew she was fretting over him._

_It was later that afternoon__2__, after the ceremony, the dancing, and the breakfast that Philippa came up to her brother's room. Mr. and Mrs. James Davies were leaving for their new home in east London, after they had had two weeks in the south of France. Like the Holmes', the Davies' were not wealthy, but had enough money to live well. And it seemed that their only son and the Holmes' only daughter were going to be a brilliant match. Not even Gertrude could protest that day. No one would dare dispute the future of the happy couple. No one except Sherlock._

_She still wore the dress. The boy had taken off his horrific velvet suit, though, at the first available moment. He didn't want to see her. That was what he kept telling himself. But he knew that she would come. It was the most obvious thing in the world._

"_You've been avoiding me," said she, sitting wordlessly on the bed next to him. "We haven't spoken in days…or is it more? Since the engagement was announced? I can hardly remember."_

"_You're exaggerating. We have spoken."_

"_Not like we used to…please, Sherlock."_

"_No!" He jumped to his feet and flew to the window. She would convince him to lose his anger. And he did not want to lose it. It kept him going. It would keep him sustained through this disaster. _

"_Darling…"_

"_No! I understand." He didn't, of course, but it was an easy lie. "It is what you're supposed to do, right? To marry and have children. I know that's what a woman's place is. And…you are a woman now…so you are supposed to marry. It's completely logical."_

_Her hand was on his shoulder now. She moved silently, just as he did. He hadn't really noticed until that second. It was the first time that the boy really thought about how alike the two were. He often silently compared himself to Mycroft. That made more sense, somehow. It never occurred to him that his sister-a female-would have anything in common with him. "Just because it is logical doesn't mean you have to like it, darling. It is alright to feel saddened ."_

"_Rubbish!"_

"_Sherlock!"_

_He couldn't turn around then, for he feared if she were crying, he would let all pretences of logic fly straight out the window. Mastering one's emotions was something that was essential to success in life. John Locke had said that reason must be the guide in everything. Emotion led to betrayal, and betrayal led to how he felt right now._

"_Just leave me in peace, Philly," said Sherlock at last. "Go off with Davies and good riddance."_

"_You don't mean that. I know that you don't mean it."_

"_I do!" He glared hard, but he felt the lead that was creeping into his stomach. "I'm not an infant anymore! I don't need you! You can go off and have your own children!"_

"_My darling boy…"She tried to hug him, but it was over. There would be none of this. Not ever again. Perhaps he would apologise, or perhaps even she would for leaving him. But Sherlock knew that they would never be the same again. Both brother and sister knew it._

"_I hope you will come to London to see me, Sherlock," said Philippa in a voice that was not her own. "We'll be back in two weeks only, but I will be eager to see you."_

"_Perhaps."_

_She walked silently to the door. "Good-bye, darling." It closed behind her._

_And for the first of two times in his life, Sherlock went__3__ down completely'._

1 A Victorian English tradition-considered bad luck.

2 By law, until 1880, weddings in England had to be performed before noon. An example of this is in SCAN with Irene Adler and Godfrey Norton.

3 As in broke down


	21. Chapter 21

_A/N: Damn finals! And that's all I'm going to say about that. Well, except thanks to those who answered my question about British weights. Hmm…I should let you guys do more of the work more often…read and enjoy!_

When I got back to my room in the Holmes' estate, I was completely baffled. My chat with Mycroft was bewildering enough as it was, but adding LeStrade to the mix, I was unsure what to think. LeStrade knew something, something about Sherlock, something according to his brother, that had to do with a case he would never take up. While it was true that LeStrade had actually known Holmes longer than I, I could not imagine what this could be.

I was on the point of confronting Holmes with this confusion when I realised I had no idea where he was. He was not in my room, nor any longer in the room we had spent the night in. I spent an extremely uncomfortable hour searching the house, which was expansive, but to no avail. At last I confronted the servants-the same sullen faced cook from the last night and an unstable looking yardman to see if he had been spotted. He had.

"He said only that he wanted to borrow the horse, sir," the fellow said. "T'aint even much of an animal, but I told him, sir, that'd get him to Wadebridge and back."

"He was on his way to Wadebridge?"

"I gather so, sir."

I couldn't imagine what on Earth he would be going there for, especially on such a day as this. I knew for certain if anything he was eager for this all to be over with. When he left as a child, he had never intended to come back. That much had been made abundantly clear. It was the only thing that was clear.

He had still not returned by the time the hearse had pulled up to the house. I did not view the coffin being placed inside its glass house, but it was clear that Mycroft had designated only modest expense (no doubt at the wishes of the deceased). Only one horse in traditional black ostrich feathers was pulling the cart and there were only two others for the mourners. I was given a black band for my topper, and I tried to look not out of place as we rode quietly toward the nearest chapel. Once, Mycroft glanced at me as if he wanted to say something, but did not. I am quite sure that he realised I had no idea where his brother was.

The service was short and no one spoke other than one wizened old vicar who was barely audible. The chapel was deathly cold, and I wanted only for the whole thing to be finished so that I may leave this God-forsaken place.

The burial was to occur behind the chapel. This did not surprise me. Mycroft, as the chief mourner, followed solemnly behind the casket with hands clasped, but showed little emotion. There were not many others, and no one I could place for certain. A few elderly ladies who appeared to be some sort of relations, some curious locals perhaps, the ancient vicar, and some fellow church parishioners, perhaps. They were all of advanced age, which seemed to me odd, although I cannot say for certain why so. Perhaps it was because I myself was so out of place without Holmes. I had not even known the deceased, except from Holmes' story, and from that there would be no sorrow from me. I will not think it shameful to admit that I was not sad she was dead. For her abominable behaviour toward her own child, I think it fair to say that she had been alive to enjoy life too long as it was.

The vicar took us to a plot behind the chapel, an old plot with graves so antique that they were unreadable and collapsing in some cases, covered in years worth of brown and green weeds. The final prayers commenced, while I stood near Mycroft with head bent, trying to look as sober as he, but my mind reeling as to where his brother was. I couldn't help but glance out of the corners of my eyes, thinking he would appear at any second. He did not. The prayers ended, and as soon as the ladies had departed1, two strong-backed fellows took up their shovels to cover the oaken casket. Mycroft sighed deeply, but I could not tell if it was from sadness or relief that at last it was over. I nearly laid my hand at his shoulder, but thought better of it at the last. He was not his brother. I had already seen all the weakness in this Holmes that I was going to.

The funeral was over then, and the friends and relations slowly scattered. Some spoke in low voices to Mycroft, but he did little more than nod and glance about with a grim expression. I knew what he was thinking, I dare say. He was going to be rather angry with his brother, if he ever did intend to show up.

Not sure what was expected of me, I wandered about the graveyard, the names and dates somehow fascinating to me. 200 years or more of history here, forgotten, reduced to rubble. It was hard to fathom that these had once been living beings with families, lives; hopes and dreams. There was the concrete lamb statue of a little girl-only four, a victim of typhoid or cholera, I would wager, as both ran rampant here. Next to her was an entire family- a father, mother, and three children under the age of ten-all deceased in the 20's and all buried under the same marker. This saddened me all the more, thinking of my own family, scattered between Kent and London, immediately flashed into my mind. Holmes was all that I had left. Holmes and Josh. Perhaps that was why I was both so angry and yet not at the same time.

Finally, I saw him at, of all places, back at his mother's grave. At first, I was nothing but infuriated because I had promised Mycroft I would have his brother there and then he disappeared without trace. But before I could plod over, red-faced and acid-tongued, I saw the elder Holmes stroll up next to him. Now feeling it rude to intervene, I instead stayed put, mostly hidden behind a rather large statuette of an angel, carved in great detail of white marble.

"So, brother," said Mycroft, calmer than I would have expected, "you do show up at the last. Too late for the appearance of respect and civility, but not so late for your own purposes."

"You speak at though these anile great-aunts, senile cronies and ignorant Cornish ploughman greatly effects your position. I shouldn't think that any man in Parliament, nor any woman in Windsor Castle will remember Mycroft Holmes as anything but the foremost mind of the late 19th century."

The elder Holmes puffed up with a loud snort, though it was difficult to tell whether it was vanity at this exaggerated statement or just annoyance. Each was equally likely.

"You seem to think my anxiety is misguided and overstated, Sherlock, existing only because I must be concerned for my own reputation"-

"On the contrary, brother mine, I think you also concerned for your job, your club, and your connections to the finest eating establishments in London." He chuckled, unconcerned his sibling was obviously in anything but a jocular mood.

"Do not be condescending to me! I'll have you remember it was I who accepted, in fact _encouraged_"-

Sherlock jerked forward suddenly, his hand flying out to grasp his brother by the shoulder. With his back to me, I could not see the expression on his face, but they then began to speak only in low whispers. Whatever Mycroft had been about to say remained unspoken. Unconcerned with my shame, I leaned closer, trying to hear, but I could make out nothing short of a few head shakes.

"You are aware you are juggling swords?" Mycroft at last continued normally. "And that Newton's theorem must come into play before long? I speak of course, that these swords will eventually succumb to the gravity2 that even you are not capable of preventing."

"Your mind does not see _everything_, brother." Sherlock was absolutely final in his tone at this. It could have been a snake that said it.

Perhaps it was my own guilt at what I was doing-eavesdropping, that explains why I didn't even try and separate the pieces of their cryptic conversation.

Mycroft, it seemed, despite the appearance of propriety and normalcy, always forgave his younger brother's discretions. I thought it highly ironic that the public view of the elder brother was obviously one of utmost respect, as I now knew that he was, at times, the British government. Yet he was far from mainstream. He was a founding member of a club that did not permit its members to speak; he was completely anti-social, anti-sport, anti-convention, even. Still haunted by the spirit of the only woman he had allowed himself to feel love for. He would never marry, never have a family, never really even allow himself friends…

I paused, shocked by my own analysis. Perhaps the two brothers were more alike that I realised. In fact, the only real difference I could name was that Sherlock had risked it all to confess and trust me; Mycroft would not take that risk with anyone now that Jane was lost.

I felt sorry for them then. To be so strong of mind-even body, but so fragile of heart that at any minute the icy material could shatter into a million pieces.

At some point during my pondering, Mycroft had disappeared. I was suddenly fearful of being spotted, so I tried to make him out amongst the small black groups gathered 'round the chapel, but the familial trait of stealth must have come into play, for he had disappeared into the wind.

Sherlock stared angrily at the newest grave in Bodmin Moor. Or perhaps 'angrily' is not the correct word. I could be transposing my own will on to him, wanting him to be angry. In truth, he was probably stone-faced, emotionless, completely composed. His words, when spoken, would seem to have been spoken in anger. That was how it was to me. But take it from me that I knew them to be spoken with complete equanimity.

"Well, Mater, at last you are gone. I had for a time against my better judgment, supposed that you were a creature who was not capable of life and death. One who had existed and always would. Your God did manage to keep you away for a spell, did he not? But in the end, you got your own way. Just as it was in life. I want you to know, my dear mother, two very important things. Firstly, that I come here today not for your own sake, but for your other son's. He has tried to the best of his ability to protect me, and I owe him some loyalty for that, although I care not to admit it. Secondly, I want you to know that I have succeeded. Certainly not because of you, but not despite you, either. It is because I have _chosen_ to. For years, I had thought you won. I nearly let you, in fact. But for the first time since before I lost Philippa, I have something that makes me happy. Not something merely to distract me until my life is over, such as it is for Mycroft, but something that makes life seem worth living. You would say that I am on the path to Satan. You would say that no matter, but if you knew of my life at this point, I am certain you would think me destined to an afterlife of fire and brimstone. I am not one to speculate on such matters. Theology has never held much interest. Perhaps because it was crammed down my throat as a child, or perhaps because it is intangible, useless, unscientific and holds no use for me. But it's of little consequence. I will take that risk. And if you did manage to make it to a place where you can hear me now, than I want you to know that. You have never known anything else about me, so know that."

He paused and bowed his head slightly. His right hand seemed for a minute, about ready to reach out to touch the grave, but at the last it did not. Holmes quickly made the sign of the cross and turned away, nearly at a run. That was as close as he would come to making peace with his mother. I wouldn't know him to speak of her again.

Before I even had time to turn back to see where he was, he appeared in front of me with a wide grin. "Hello, doctor. Looking for me, were you?"

I was so surprised that by the time my heart had returned to a normal rhythm, it was too late for any retorts, clever or not. "Where the devil have you been?"

"Oh, come now, Watson. I have already been quite castrated by brother Mycroft. I needn't hear the same from you." He linked his arm through mine, and with an enthusiastic pull, led me toward the chapel.

"How was the service?"

"Perhaps you would know, had you bothered to attend."

That smile again. But he refused to take offence, even on those rare occasions when I do intend it. "I am sure that my brother gave a stellar performance as the dutiful son in grief. I came home for his sake, but never did I promise that I would subject myself to such tortures as the actual ceremony. I will briefly shake the hands of any ancient relations of mine who happen to still be alive before we depart, thanking them for their misguided sympathy, but that is all. There is no reason left for me to ever think on this place again."

Before we could leave the eerie grounds of the cemetery, Holmes paused for a second, staring at something just off the distance, near to his mother's grave. "What are you starring at?" Asked I, trying to see.

"Nothing." He turned away quickly to retake my arm and said not a thing for several moments. It was only later that I would realise the very grave with the white marble angel I had been hiding from, watching the two brothers was that of Philippa Davies Holmes. I would not see it again for many years, but there after I would visit it quite often, placing flowers at it and the tomb next to it. I knew even then that it was the place he would want to spend eternity.

Mycroft seemed in genuine morning the rest of our time in Cornwall, which was only a few hours more. Wherever Holmes had gone to those missing hours, whether it really was Wadebridge or somewhere more specific, he had obtained return tickets, and we to leave on the 1:14 back to Victoria, to be home for a late supper. There were actually three tickets when he produced him, and Sherlock tried (albeit without much heart in it) to convince his brother to return to London with us. He refused with a shake of his massive head. "There is still much to do here," said he in a thin voice. "The estate must be catalogued, the servants disposed of, the will read, and the dept liquidated. I, of course, am left to handle all of this."

For a second, I think Sherlock nearly was ready to stay another day or two, just for his brother's sake. For a second, his hard face softened, but then I think the ghosts of the house called to him and he shuddered slightly. "I have no doubt that you are capable of it all, brother. Do send word if there is anything I can do…oh, and about the will…"

"You would have the _audacity_"-

Sherlock held up a hand. "I would have the audacity to tell you that while I highly doubt Mother would take such leave of her senses to remember me, if the law happens that the estate is to be divided between both sons, I am telling you now that you may uses every last pound of it to surround yourself with vintage port and curried fowl. I want nothing."

Mycroft's lip curled, and it seemed evident another war in as many days was going to occur between the two brothers. But instead, nothing happened. The elder brother merely nodded, waving us away and saying nothing else. I remembered how he had spoken that very morning. I wondered if Sherlock ever knew there was a side to his brother that was not made of stone.

My friend seemed deep in thought the entire dogcart trip from Bodmin Moor to the station in Wadebridge. Having nothing else to do, I watched him in his brown study. His expression was lucid, but his eyes seemed detached, darting back and forth faster than the wheels of our transportation could turn. I could nearly see into his mind. He was thinking about what happened the last two days, last night in particular. Perhaps he was even remembering all the things he did not tell me about his childhood, all the things too painful to even talk about. Such as Philippa's actual death, and whatever else his mother may have done to him. Then there was school; I knew nothing from the age of ten or so until we met. There was so much more to know. It was my own private mystery. My own mystery to try and solve. Starting with LeStrade. I made up my mind right then and there to pay a visit to Scotland Yard soon after we returned. I was not a fellow that had to know everything, mind. But there were some puzzle pieces that just had to fall into place before I would ever be able to close my mind to it all. He had started me down this path and like our relationship, I could not divert from it now. It was all too far gone.

I started my investigation on the train, another private compartment, as was Holmes' typical fashion for attaining. He was not the most cooperative of clients. He seemed to want to continue his silent meditation that had occupied him for the entire two hour cart ride. I didn't think that I could stand that.

"I am not sure that your brother will ever forgive your actions today. He especially wanted you to be there, for the funeral." What I did not tell him was how I knew this.

"I do not take orders from Mycroft," said Holmes in a bitter tone. "Nor you, might I add."

"I do not expect you to take orders. Merely to do what is right occasionally"-

"Right had nothing to do with this morning! Mycroft only cares about other people's perceptions of his daft brother! Of course, he is as queer as I am, if not more, but unfortunately for him, his occupation requires that he maintain an appearance of normalcy and tedium. His own closeted skeletons barely allow for this. Add to it a brother like I…well, you see it, do you not?"

"You are wrong!" I said, leaning forward. "Your brother cares for more than his own reputation. I can assure you that he cares for you as well!"

"Ha! How do you know that? What were you doing with him this morning?"

I didn't even hesitate. It was so much impulse that I knew later I would not have been able to stop myself even if I had wanted to. But I did not. I jumped to my feet and gave him a blow that was far more ruffian than he was used to, I'm sure. It was not a straight-left by any means. It was a wild swing that caught him hard against the cheek. He reeled in his seat with a grunt, but did neither cry out nor retaliate.

As for myself, I slowly lowered my body into the seat feeling my hand throb. The first thing that occurred to me was that I hadn't been in a fist-fight for probably two decades and yet I had resorted to it now. The second thing I felt was utter calm. It was as if all the anger and frustration I had harboured over his behaviour had through my fist as soon as I hit him.

I was stunned, unable to believe I had done it. But I was also unable to apologise. I knew I had meant it and he deserved it. So with as much dignity as I could muster after my puerile action, I sat straight-backed waiting for his reaction.

He laughed. Looking me squarely in the eye, he actually began to laugh quite heartily. He did wince when it became apparent his newly bruised cheek wouldn't allow it, but I thought surely he must have gone mad. It had been thought that geniuses tended to have problems with their own sanity. And I thought for that moment Sherlock Holmes had at last crossed that boundary.

"My God, you're mad…"

His laugh turned to a chuckle. "Surely you don't believe such a thing."

"Certainly I do! And will you please stop that laughing? What sort of person except a madman would laugh rather than retaliate when someone hits him?"

"Now, now," said he, holding up his hands defensively. "Don't let any such rubbish cross your mind. There was a perfectly rational reason for my actions. I assure you, dear Watson, I am as sane as you."

That was not exactly reassuring as my own actions I had long suspected now could not have undertaken with complete lucidity. "Then, prey, enlighten me. Why wouldn't you, a champion of the ring who easily could defeat me if it came to such, strike me back?"

"Tsk. Really, Watson. Do you think I would do my dearest friend such a way? Well, perhaps you do at that. I shan't blame you if you do. After all, it was I who dealt the first blow…" he cleared his throat, momentarily looking away. His actions the previous night were as fresh and painful in his own mind as in mine. Perhaps more. "I wanted you to hit me. Sometimes it is the only answer to strike at what pains our hearts. But I knew you, as a gentleman, would not come to such an end unless I provoked you." He smiled. "It worked, did it not?"

"Holmes, are we such barbarians that we have to resort to hitting to solve our problems?" That at least was what I said, although I could not deny how good that punch really did feel. And how much he really did deserve it.

"There is nothing barbarian about instinct, doctor. In fact, it is deeply laden within the brain, tracing in some cases back to different stages of man. Like animals, without instinct, we would not be able to survive, as we could be easily overcome by such emotions as fear3"-

"Could you please save this talk for another time? While no doubt fascinating…"

"Watson," he interrupted, snatching my hand suddenly in a tight embrace. "You have my most sincere apologies for my actions the other night. You must realise…I was not myself. It was that house…being there again…remembering…" he shivered, and on instinct, I gripped his hand tighter. "All the death and murder and deconstruction of society we have witnessed together could not prepare me to return there. I have spent three-quarters of my life trying to forget that the first twelve occurred. Like Dante's traveller, I could not escape Purgatory, and felt certain I was returning to Cocytus4. Last night, I _was_ that completely frozen and deserve to be among the three traitors for what I did. But God, if indeed such a being exists, will witness that I never intended to hurt you. What I did…I will never…abuse you in such a way again. I swear it."

There was more sincerity in his voice than I ever recalled him using with me. On one hand, I was touched. Touched that he had summoned both the nerve and emotion to muster this speech. But on the other hand, I knew that even if I forgave him here, which I knew in my heart I would, there was nothing that even he could say that would make me forget. And I told him so.

"I know," he replied in a whisper. That was all he would say.

He could have protested. I had actually expected he would. Arguing his point of view was one of his strong suits, and rare was the occasion when he would so genuflect to myself. But there would be no disputing me. His punishment would be to know that nothing he could say or do what change what had happened. And as we all know, guilt was the worst punishment of all.

"I have something for you," said Holmes after a long and knowing silence. "I found it this morning. I must tell you straight away I do not want to discuss anything it may say. And no matter what you say, I will not change my mind to that. But you are free to do whatever you want."

What he handed me was a thick brown correspondence book. It was old and had a musty smell to it; the pages felt thick and creased in my hands, as if read a lot. It was filled with ink that had one time might have been black, but had since faded to pale brown. I had time only to glance at the first page before I knew I would have to say something to him, as that page told all.

'The Private Journal of Observations by Sherlock Holmes, age 8 years.'

"I was eight when I began to record life as it happened to me. I cannot say for sure why I did, although it became great practise for later life when I was forced to keep some documentation of cases. I recorded nearly every day in my life from eight to eleven and a half, and then at least once or twice a week until nearly twenty."

"Why stop?" I asked, as I myself had kept a journal, or at least some ramblings of my life, for as long as I could remember.

He gave a brief shrug. "Life became commonplace. I lost interest. I was too engaged in trying to eke out my chosen profession. Take any excuse you like."

"But why give this to me?"

"Well, you often claim that there are parts of me unknown to you…what you write of me is not who I truly am"-

"I would presume though, that you would not wish the public to know you in any other way."

"True enough. But that does not mean I would deny you. If my mother's death has stirred anything good within me, I want it to be understanding between you and I. I wish to give you my complete trust, as I know I have not up until now." He pointed to the book. "There are things I wrote in there I am not proud of. Things that could even be considered scandalous if the public were to become aware of them. Up until now, anything I may have done that could lead to blackmail, arrest, disgrace, et cetera, I have made certain of no proof existing. Unlike Wilde, whose soul is rotting in Reading Gaol, I know that discretion is the only shroud for my life with you. But even a Scotland Yarder could connect the dots of what I confess in that book." He looked at me then, with eyes that were firm but seemed to me fearful anyway. Whether or not that was my fancy I couldn't say. "For the first time in my life, I am putting my life in the hands of another."

Sitting there with him then with his hand in mine, I recalled a memory of some two years previous. Just after a Christmas in Switzerland, a very long train ride from Dover and then home to London. Josh, asleep in my arms, and Holmes and I, peaceful and mellow. There was no concern over the present, no fear over the future, at least for a few moments. There was just the three of us, a gorgeous sun setting, and no one having to speak. I hadn't realised at the time, but I now knew that was the most perfect moment of my life. I highly doubted that it could ever be like that again. Nothing had really changed. It was still he, I and the boy. Yet something had. I fully remembered the promise each of us had made that night, just months later. If ever there was a time we could not continue; we had not the other's complete heart, we were supposed to quit. There was too much to risk to continue if not under the most devoted of circumstances.

I was not certain whether such a time had occurred. But for now, I was going to say that it had not.

_The boy, Sherlock, eleven years old, sat in a second-class compartment with his sister and brother-in-law. The train was heading to Victoria Station from Wadebridge on that chilly morning in mid-December. The Christmas season was just ten days away, the first one for the newly married couple of Mr. and Mrs. James Davies. _

_It was plain to all, Sherlock thought, that they were newly married. They sat with hands held, ridiculous grins frequently passing between them with any number of other intricacies that made it obvious. One of which was his sister's belly, at six months along, already sticking out round and firm from her dress. Sherlock could not help but stare at it angrily. The life that was in there would mean the end of his. One look at it, and there would be no need for him. He would be thrown over to a rank, drooling bundle of filth that everyone would coo and fawn over. Philippa had tried on numerous occasions to convince him that would not happen. Sherlock did not believe her._

_They were going to London that day to shop about for the forthcoming holiday. Sherlock was to stay with his sister until the day before Christmas Eve, when all three would return to Cornwall to celebrate the holiday. Everyone was in good spirits. Philly and James, of course, but even his parents. His mother had basically ignored everything he did and had since the wedding in June. It was a glorious freedom for the first time in his life, that he could go and do what he pleased, not having to worry about retribution from the woman. Even Mycroft was pleasant. He was eighteen now, and had just returned from his first semester at Oxford. The only thoughts he had were of University and Jane Davies. _

_Everyone was content with life for the first time that Sherlock could remember. Everyone but him._

"_I think that Honora is a lovely name," Philippa was saying. "Or perhaps Maeve?"_

"_You must be daft if you think I'll have a child called Maeve!" Said James, laughing. "Besides, it's going to be a boy and it will be named James, junior, of course."_

" '_I'm' daft! I'll have you know, James Davies, that this child is growing in _my_ womb. I think I am a better judge of what it shall be." The two continued this ridiculous argument for some minutes more with Sherlock trying to silence them with the most contemptuous glower he could muster. Philippa sighed at last, smiling at her brother as if she could not see his anger. "I remember when you were born, darling boy. I had so hoped for a sister."_

_Sherlock's eyes went completely wide. _

"_But I was more than pleased at having another brother."_

_Davies laughed in that common, altogether too jubilant way of his that sounding like someone prodding a mule in its backside. "I don't think he's too pleased to hear you wishing him a girl, Phil." He slapped his brother-in-law good-naturedly on the arm._

_In truth, the boy could think of nothing worse than being born female. But he would not tell his sister that. "I say, Davies, you _do _have a great propensity for the obvious."_

_James' mouth closed. He did not say anything directly to Sherlock again until after the station arrived in the City. _

"_Really, Sherlock," said Philippa. But that was as rebuking as she ever got._

_London was saturated with Christmastide cheer. There were about 3 million people counting the outer boroughs in the city and it seemed to Sherlock that every single one of them was out that day, rushing about with packages and parcels hanging off various appendages. He loved the city. He always knew that sooner or later he would end up here, amongst the crowds and soot and air that occasionally hurt to breath. But it was action. Solid action. His mind would never cease to pulse in a place like this._

"_Shall we go off and find you a present?" Asked Philippa, as Davies disappeared into a clothing store, and the brother and sister took off alone._

"_Yes…how about a divorce for you and James?"_

_Her face fell so that the boy was forced to look away. "That pains me, my dear. You know that, don't you? Why can't you…" She sighed walking a half-step in front of him. "I love you both. But you expect me to choose between you. I cannot do it! I refuse to do it! You are my brother, my own child in my heart, but James is my husband. It is utterly unfair of you to ask me to choose between you."_

_He knew that she was right. He _was _asking her to choose. But she was gone, gone from him now, gone the moment that the gold band had been placed on her finger. He had nobody now. Nobody to keep his mind sane, nobody to hold him, nobody to listen to his brilliance…nobody to love. He felt for the first time completely alone._

"_Sherlock! Sherlock, come back!"_

_He did not know his way around London at all yet. But this was the perfect opportunity to find out. He was headed toward Whitechapel, the unclean area of the city. It seemed a perfect place to start. He passed restaurants, tobacconists, hotels, shops, pubs, a church and a bank without stopping. He thought he could still hear her behind him, but the streets were getting more and more crowded and it was hard to hear. He slowed down briefly, but then he heard his name again. He was standing between a pub and a bookstore, a cart on his left and a crowd of shouting people just behind him when it happened._

_He thought that he might have heard someone yell "Stop," but it was hard to tell for all the people. He heard the shot but didn't know that was what it was. It sounded only like a bang, a door being slammed, lightning that drew a bit too near. But instinct stopped him the second it happened. His entire body went completely rigid. Gunpowder. Nothing smelled like it, and it was close enough to linger in the air. There was screaming and panic, men shouting and at least one small child crying. A dog started barking and he heard heavy footfalls. "Where was it?" A man's voice called out. "Over here!" That was a different man. "Get out! Move aside! Move aside, now!"_

_And all of that was before he could even muster the courage to turn around. When at last he did, there was nothing to see but a colourful blur of people. Shoving and general running about commenced, and Sherlock knew that it was bad. And he too, began to shove and run. "Out of the way!" He yelled. He knew. He just knew. "Get out of the way!" He jostled a fat man in front of him hard as he could. "That's my sister!" His heart was pumping so hard that it hurt. But he could not stop to clench his chest nor keel over, like he wished he could. He was too busy pushing. Some large fellow back-handed him. He didn't even stop to think if it was on purpose or not. Sliding between his legs, he had reached the epicentre of the ruckus. _

"_God..Oh, God…_

_She was lying on the cement which had seeped to red and puddled around the body. People crept back, trying to avoid stepping it in, but most stayed close enough to watch. Sherlock fell to his knees, feeling how cold it already was. He tried to take her hand, but it wouldn't move. "Philly…" his voice said. "Philly…"_

_One eye opened slightly, enough to see the deep grey colour. Her mouth twitched slightly, as if she were trying to smile. What followed could have been a horrible scene of last confessions of love, hand holding and heavy tears of sorrow and shock. But the reality of it was far different. Sherlock could move no part of him except his eyes. He was kneeling in a gigantic puddle of blood and all he could think was how disgusting it felt. Several times in those last few seconds he tried to reach out to touch her, to heal her, but he simply could not move._

_She died with a short little gasp, her mouth remaining open and eyes falling horribly back to all white. Neither said any last words. Neither could really believe the other was there. It really mattered very little._

_At some point in his shock, the boy realised that Davies had appeared. He looked up at him, feeling curious. He seemed distraught. Some men were next to him, and one held him tight by the arm. He was talking to him, but Sherlock could no longer hear. The world had changed; had become so oddly slow. Surely he was here to fix his sister. That had to be what he was here for. Why wouldn't they let him go to her?_

_Someone grabbed his arm. "Come out of there, boy," said he._

_It didn't even occur to Sherlock to move. The man, who wore a policeman's uniform and a thick walrus-like moustache, tugged harder. "I said _now_, lad."_

_When he still didn't move, the Bobby actually picked him up, dragging him toward the sidewalk. They were taking Philippa away on a long board. She was covered with a piece of white resin, already turning red. _

_At last he found his voice. "Where are they taking her?" He asked anyone who might have the answer. "Where are they taking Philly?"_

_He turned on Davies, but he had somehow disappeared. A medium-height detective with dark hair and beady eyes appeared in his place. He wore a plain dark suit, but Sherlock knew he had to be an Inspector. They stuck out like sore thumbs. _

_The officer who had accosted the boy pushed him over toward him. Sherlock could have fought back. He could have ran, most likely after his sister, but he allowed himself to be led. "Inspector LeStrade__5__, sir," said the bulky man, touching his hat. "This lad here is the young lady's brother. That's according to her husband, sir. He said maybe he had seen what had happened. They were together, apparently, sir."_

_The Inspector nodded and turned his rat-like eyes on the boy. "What's your name, boy?"_

_Sherlock didn't answer. His mind turned rapidly, trying to put it all together. The gunpowder had been so near he could feel it in his nostrils. Whoever had shot her had been right next to him. _

_Close enough that he could have reached out to touch him. If only he had turned around._

_The Inspector jabbed him hard on his arm, his face twisted in his anger. "I know this isn't easy, boy, but if we are to catch this madman, it has to be now. Look at _me _boy! Now, tell me what your name is!"_

_Eventually, Sherlock told him. A cab with iron bars appeared and he went with the Inspector to his local division. Although usually able to remember nearly everything that happened to him with his photographic memory; that day the boy could not even recall the questions they asked. It was all a blur of confusion and constant explanation that did not seem to get them any closer to the truth. Finally, Sherlock looked up from his uncomfortable wooden chair and saw Davies' standing near. With the Inspector yelling protestations behind him, Sherlock ran over._

"_Where is she, Davies? Where is she?"_

_He had been crying. His face was still streaked and pale red; his hair dishevelled and his handkerchief missing. There was a dirt streak on his collar and his tie was askew. He looked at the boy and gasped. "Jesus, Sherlock, Jesus Chirst."_

_The boy realised then, looking down at his suit, that it was heavily stained with blood. He quickly looked back at Davies, fighting the urge to strip off all his clothing._

"_Never mind that," he said to him angrily. "What about Philippa?"_

_But James could manage nothing but more 'Jesus…Jesus Chirst.' _

"_Tell me what's happened, you bastard!"_

_Davies was crying again now. Heavy tears blurred his eyes, and he made no effort to hide it. In fact, to the boy's great shock, he grabbed him in a tight embrace and wailed loudly enough that several policeman turned to see what was going on. "Oh, God…why? Why did this happen? My darling…she's dead! They're both dead!" Davies tried to grip him even tighter, but Sherlock had gone completely limp upon hearing the word 'dead.' He would not remember anything about the rest of that day, nor the two that followed it._

1 It was the custom that ladies not witness the actual internment

2 Whether Mycroft is talking about the gravity of an object or a situation, I'll leave open for speculation.

3 The psychology of instinct and suppression was not fully explored until around 1920. Again, Holmes is ahead of his time.

4 The ninth level of Hell is Cocytus, where Satan himself resides, flapping his wings for all eternity and making thick layers of ice. Traitors to God, family and county are said to reside there. The three traitors Holmes speaks of are Cassius, Brutus, and Judas.

5 I'm sure you all know this, but just in case someone is going 'huh?' I mean this to be LeStrade, senior.


	22. Chapter 22

_A/N: Loads of apologies...both personal and technological issues account for the delay. Here's one chapter and another will be up within days. Thanks!_

Baker Street had never looked so inviting, I thought when my eyes at last fell on it. With its crowded streets, familiar shops, pungent smells and bellowing residents, I wanted to all but race through the lovely green door of 221B. Life was to become common-place again; to consist of cases and writings, the bringing-up of my child. And Holmes and I had come to some sort of understanding, I supposed. One which could allow my mind some ease from all the worrying it did. That was at least what I thought.

Our flat appeared dark and lifeless, an ironic contrast to the hustle and bustle of our fair city street. It was odd, for I could not imagine Mrs. Hudson attending to her never ceasing woman's work in such a state, yet if she were elsewhere, than whereabouts could my son be? I called to them as the cabbie unloaded our bags, but received no answer.

"Do you think they've gone off somewhere? I sent word we were coming by the 1:14."

"I would think that our good housekeeper has indeed vanished," replied Holmes, absently dropping coin into the hand of the man.

"What? She would never"-

"Of course not. If you will observe this,"- his hand moved quickly to a woman's bonnet set atop our rack of sticks. "I think you will find we have company. It is a new style and ornate in its decoration, yet far from expensive…" he paused to scoff as he studied the hat. "She is very young then. Young and from a middle-class working family. A redhead…well, that fits with the Hudsons, I gather. I doubt our cautious landlady would permit anyone entrance here to stay with the boy unless she were family. Also,"-

"Quite right, Mr. Holmes."

We both turned to see a Goddess of womanhood descended the stairs. Well, I confess that is what I observed, anyhow. To Holmes, it could have been a demon, a dangerous creature with fangs and horns. Eve with the cursed fruit outstretched. But whatever he saw, I was entranced by eyes of blue and hair of dark auburn. A slim figure of ivory coloured skin that shown like porcelain with dimples as she smiled at us. I could continue with all the various aspects of her physicality that I noticed, some of which I would be embarrassed to confess to, but I will not. To sum it all, she was a beautiful specimen that caused my tongue to immediately go dry as I watched her approach. It was a glorious sight.

"I'm Julia Hudson. Your landlady is my Grandmama, Grandmama Martha."

She then turned to me and offered me a satiny-smooth hand, which I eagerly accepted. "John Watson. It's a pleasure, Miss Hudson."

"Of course you are." I noticed she had a very distinctive grin. It was not exactly the kind that a man would describe as attractive, rather it was crooked, but it was confident and subtle. "You're the _good _tenant, from what I hear."

I only managed to smile, like a total fool. An enraptured fool.

"And of course this is your celebrated friend." With every bit of charm I had instantly recognised in the young lady, she smiled and said to my friend. "From Dr. Watson's cases and my Grandmother, I feel I already know you, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes stared at the hand she offered the way another man might regard a snake posed to strike: with wide, dangerous eyes and a nearly frozen expression. This did surprise me, for as I have noted in my cases, my friend was a chivalrous opponent, despite his opinions of the fair sex. But now, gallant was the last adjective one might choose to tag him with. He looked quite afraid-afraid and poisonous.

"Holmes…" I muttered after his strange silence, urging him back to reality with my expression. For some reason, it worked. Holmes blinked a few times before briefly taking the young ladies hand and nodding ever so slightly, as if it were painful to do so.

"You're very distracted," said Miss Hudson. "No doubt deducing my entire life from a smudge on my hand or the colour of my eyes."

At first, I nearly thought he was going to do just that, and we would be subject to her entire history. Instead, he said, "I highly doubt you could really know _me _from Watson's accounts. A fact he will no doubt affirm. If you will both excuse me…" He swooped past us and was upstairs faster than a gust of wind.

"You'll have to excuse him, Miss Hudson," said I as I tried to not shake my head in agitation watching him disappear. "He has had a trying few days."

"Ah…a particularly arduous case?"

"No…actually, his mother…she passed on the other day. We've been at her funeral."

"Oh, I'm so sorry for him." Her gaze also fell to the empty staircase. "I know how he must feel. I myself lost my mother at only seven."

I felt the connection between us cement at that point. But of course, I said nothing.

We walked together out of the entry way and into the dining room, which Mrs. Hudson never used and I could count only a handful of times I had even been into. It was all perfectly organised, of course. The English oak table, antique silver candlesticks and emerald-coloured wall-paper. It had miniscule pink rosettes that covered it, something I had never noticed before. How exceedingly ugly.

"You needn't stay and keep me company, doctor," said Miss Hudson after a moment. "I'm sure you are eager to see your son. Or to check on Mr. Holmes…"

"No," I said immediately. "No…that's the last thing Holmes will want, I assure you. And Josh…I'm sure he's fine. Holmes is probably with him, planning his study schedules. I should stay with you until Mrs. Hudson returns. And please, I insist you call me John, Miss Hudson."

She laughed lightly. "Not if you keep calling me 'Miss Hudson.'"

There was a photograph hanging opposite the table, framed in slightly tarnished gold. It had never occurred to me to look at it before.

"That one's Father, right there," said Julia, pointing.

I could hardly believe how young dear Mrs. Hudson looked before the years of strain and hard-work had shown themselves on her. There was a full head of hair that had to be as beautiful a shade of red as her granddaughter and a smile nearly as enchanting. But the eyes were the same. A shade of metal harder than steel.

Young Martha was surrounded by her family. A hardy-looking bloke with the same dark and dank expression that every true Scotsman was expected to wear. With a thick, walrus moustache it was impossible to see his mouth, but he would not have been smiling. Of the children, there were four, all sons, the youngest of the lot even smaller than Josh. Julia had pointed to the eldest as her father, a strapping lad and the only with the look of his mother.

"A handsome chap," said I.

"He is. Or was, rather. Mother's death hit him hard and he's hardly been the same man since." She paused, but instantly regained her composure. "He works too hard, is all. Before Mother died, he was a distinguished officer in Her Majesty's army, serving near Madras1, with the 21st Royal Scot Fusiliers."

"Really? Why, I myself was attached to the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, stationed to Bombay. Of course, I spent most of my time in Candahar, when the Battle of Maiwand broke out."

"Of course," said Miss Hudson, "I read that in your first case. You were wounded. If that had not occurred, you may have never met Mr. Holmes."

"That is true enough."

"I was quite a child at the time I was in India, though. Hardly more than seven when Papa took me back to Scotland after he was…after his service was up."

"You lived in Scotland as well?"

"Mostly in the Aviemore area. But Papa did not care to really ever settle completely. We moved about often."

I laughed at this incredible fate. "Why, my own father was from Inverness!"

"Then we are practically kin, doctor."

In the middle of all this, the door opened and Mrs. Hudson came in, still in her wrap and bonnet, carrying a large and delicious looking chicken in one hand and her market basket in another. "Goodness me! Are you back already, doctor? I had completely lost track of the time. I was hoping to have this bird already seasoned and simmering before you and Mr. Holmes arrived."

"It is no bother at all, my dear," I assured her. "I was having a perfectly pleasant conversation with your charming granddaughter."

"You flatter me, doctor." Miss Hudson smiled, but it was not the least bit bashful.

"Yes, you do at that, Dr. Watson. And that is the last thing you should do with a child like Julia."

"Grandmama!"

"Oh, I don't consider the truth to be flattering at all, Mrs. Hudson. And Miss…I mean Julia, you will join Holmes, Josh and I for a chicken supper, will you not? I am eager to hear more about Scotland and India. And of course, anything else we may have in common."

"Well, I _am_ off tomorrow, you see, for Edinburgh. An old friend of Papa's has a small acting troupe, and I have been offered to join them for a few productions. I have always dreamed of the stage-it is not much of course, but I have hopes that it may lead elsewhere…London, for example."

"I can absolutely see you there, now. The Haymarket or the Globe…the crowd would be on their feet with admiration for you."

Now most young girls would blush and be shy at such a comment (for I confess myself that I was a bit surprised I had said it), but not Miss Hudson. She laughed heavily, totally unafraid to show her spirit. "You really know how to charm a girl, doctor. But you should not raise my expectations."

"Oh, I don't consider it charm at all. Merely the truth. But to make up for my presumptuousness, I must insist that you dine with us tonight." I couldn't help but feel an instant sadness that this wondrous creature I had only just met would be out of my life in less than one day's time, perhaps forever. But if that was the way that it had to be, at least I could have one meal that I could look back on.

"Now, Dr. Watson…"

"It's alright, Grandmama," interrupted Julia. "I should like to very much, John. Then, when I am away, I can tell all the people I meet that I have had the privilege of dining with the great Sherlock Holmes and his very brave assistant, Dr. John Watson."

I felt completely warm and in control then, as if something great had occurred, although what, I could not even begin to name. Leaving the two Hudsons in the kitchen, I ventured upstairs to see my son.

By the time I had reached the attic, however, the warm feeling that appeared in the presence of Miss Hudson had already turned to one more akin to a leaden stomach.

Josh was at his desk, kicking apprehensively at the legs, and writing something in his large and nearly incomprehensible scrawl. When I entered, he looked up and grinned widely, but I could not help but recall the greetings of past times when I would return were a bit more…exuberant.

"'Lo, Papa," he said. "Did you meet Julia?"

"Er…yes, of course I did. But she's Miss Hudson, to you."

"She said to call her Julia. She's been staying here since the day you and Uncle left for the funeral. I think she's nice. She read my story and told me it was lovely. I didn't think that was a really good word for it, but that's okay. Uncle said that most women will never tell you the truth, anyway, because they're so ill…illog-ical."

"Yes, that sounds like something he would say…how on Earth did you know we had been to a funeral?" I found myself staring at the boy as if he were not my son.

Josh merely shrugged, not looking up from his paper. "Uncle was upset. It wasn't about a case and I could think of nothing else that his telegram coulda said that would make him sad. So I guessed…I shouldn't have guessed. It's disruptive to the fossilities…or something. You won't tell him, will you?" He actually looked afraid at the prospect of Holmes knowing he'd done such a thing.

"Of course not."

"I was right, then?"

"Yes…yes, you were right." As if there were any doubts to that.

He grinned, but it quickly turned into a non-expression when he saw my face. "I'm sorry. I suppose Uncle must be dreadful upset."

"I suppose he may be." Just not in the way the boy thought.

"He's not…not mad at me?" He began to scribble harder.

"And why would he be?"

"He was angry before you left. I was being a bother."

"Now, don't speak rubbish, Josh. It was not your fault at _all_. You did nothing. He was very wrong to yell the way he did."

He nodded, but looked hardly convinced. For a few seconds, I thought I had back the boy I'd had before my wife's death. The boy that should have been only five years of age. "Papa?" He asked as I was observing this.

"Yes, darling."

"Why do you always…?"

"Always what?"

He didn't look up. "Go about with him? With Uncle?"

I inadvertently sucked in a breath and choked as though I had just inhaled some of the god-awful shag my friend was partial to poisoning himself with. The boy had a curious expression in his clear eyes, and only wrinkled his brow at my reaction. I had to tell myself he was only a child. An innocent child who, despite his abilities, still could know nothing of the truth between his father and 'uncle.'

"What, er, what do you mean by that…son?"

He cocked his head. "Only…you're always with him. That's all, Papa."

"And not here, you mean?" I wondered if I would ever feel anything but guilt around him again. He only shrugged, though, and shifted about as if he did not really understand. "I suppose, Josh…" I was compelled to continue. "I suppose I'm always with him…because he needs me to be. He would never admit such a thing, of course…but…he needs me."

Josh had stopped writing long enough to listen to this inept speech that sounded ridiculous, even to me, although I knew that I had meant it. When I finished, I think part of me expected him to be furious that I would say such a thing, to scream and yell and call me a bloody bastard, a selfish bugger.

Which I felt like.

But then I saw the curly hair and tiny hands, the velvet suit and lacy blouse2, the stuffed dog laying on his desk, and I realised to whom I was speaking. And all he said was "Oh." "Oh," and then he returned to writing.

It would be years before I realised my entire mis-spent relationship with my son hinged on that one word. That I could have said something at that moment that could have changed the entire course I was heading down with the boy. But I did not. Instead, I watched him there and said nothing. Nothing at all.

"Do you want to read my story?"

"Eh?"

"My story. I wrote it for you." He pressed a few sheets of paper in my hand that had been bound together with butcher's string. The title page read, "The Lonely Dragon by John S. Watson."

"And you did all this?"

"Well…Julia helped me with the hard words. And Mrs. Hudson tied it together for me…I was going to give it to you for Christmas, but…"

"You are impatient."

He smiled and I patted my lap, which he climbed in to. The story, which was also illustrated with crude illustrations, was simplistic, but surprisingly detailed considering it was written by one still not old enough even for grammar school. It centred around a big dragon who lived in a 'dark and scary cave many, many miles from London.' The dragon's friends were all dead because, of course, people were afraid of dragons. And so one day, the dragon flew away, to find another colony of dragons. Along the way, the dragon faced all kinds of trials, including 'the land of monster dogs.' The ending was happy, of course, for this was a fairy tale. The dragon met his long-lost family in a 'dragon city' in India, and realised that he wasn't alone after all.

"And they all lived happily after ever," proclaimed Josh as we got to the last page. "I like it when they live happily after ever."

"Yes, I…everyone likes happy endings, I suppose. Although real life is a bit more complicated than that."

"I know, Papa. But this is a story. Stories don't have to be like real life." His eyes widened a little. "Didn't you like it?"

"Of course I did, darling! It was brilliant…just like everything you do." I immediately regretted the bitterness that went into that last statement, but thankfully, Josh saw only the compliment and not the sulky cynicism.

"Josh, "said I, setting him down in front of me. "I'm sorry that I have to be away from you so often. Perhaps when you are a little older, you will understand the responsibilities that an adult has."

"I know."

"It isn't as though I don't want to be here. Sometimes…circumstances are complicated, you see."

"I know."

"I love you a great deal, son…"

"I _know, _Papa. But you love Uncle, too. I'm not thick. I _understand_."

I jumped to my feet to emphasize my point. "You do _not_ know everything, boy! Despite what Holmes may have told you! You _are _still a child, and I mean to keep you that way!"

For the first time in quite awhile, perhaps ever, I found him staring at me with anger resonating from his face. The angelic boy he always seemed to be was no where to be found. "I know more than you think," He said.

"Yes, I've no doubt as to that…"

He opened the door without looking at me. "I'm going to see Mrs. Hudson. She said that she was going to make a big cake 'cause Julia was leaving."

The realisation of what he had said hit me very suddenly. But…that could not have been what he meant. "Josh, wait!"

But his attention was already completely away from me. I shouldn't have felt anxious about the boy and his words. Love came in many forms after all, and he knew little or nothing of the truth of the kind I shared with Holmes. But still, to hear him say that he knew I loved the man. _I know more than you think…_that was probably all that he meant. There was no hidden motive, yet still…if we could not even hoodwink a small child, how in the world would we ever deceive the rest of the world?

Part of me thought to go after Josh, but I did not want a confrontation now, when Miss Hudson was still around. The only thing to do was to think on the problem for the night. And so I did the only other thing reasonable to do.

I found Holmes in his room, writing what appeared to be a letter. He pushed it away when I came in, but did turn to me. "Well, Watson, did you have a pleasant conversation with the charming Miss Hudson?"

"Indeed I did," said I, ignoring the cynicism. "We seem to have much in common."

"Hm! I'm sure you do."

"Come and sup with us and find out. Julia is a fan of yours and I'm sure she would love to hear more of your cases"-

"So it is Julia already, is it? And you've only just met…"

I couldn't help but smile. "Why, my dear Holmes. If I didn't know better, I would say that you are jealous."

"Oh, are you trying to turn me into the green-eyed monster now, Iago?" he asked with a snort. "Jealously is an emotion that one can easily turn their mind off to. It serves no logical purpose except to disrupt and distract the mind. Why, half of my cases, at least half, have been committed under the guise of jealously. The only thing it will do is lead you down the path of Hell."

A quite different quote by the great Master was in my mind at that moment, relating to one protesting too much, but I did not tell him that. He would never admit to feeling such a _human _emotion as jealously. I had my doubts that he would even recognise within himself if he were, so used to blocking off these passions was he. "I still think that, if for nothing more than respect for our landlady, you ought to attempt a civil meal with Miss Hudson and myself. It is the least you can do."

"No, no…your are in err. The _least_ I can do is to finish my notes on the delayed reactions of some poisonous vegetable alkaloids I have been studying. And leave you to _charm _Miss Hudson with your…" He looked at me as if he were going to say something far different. "Witticisms."

"Holmes…you must know that you have nothing to fear. If you cannot see that I am devoted to you by now…"

"Yes, yes…I know you are." His eyes cast downward in a rare moment of shame. "It is probably only my own insecurities. I feel…you have a connection to this young lady. It is quite extrasensory, and extremely illogical of me. Yet I feel it, nonetheless."

"She is a perfectly charming young lady, but that is all, Holmes! For God's sake, do you think that I am going to run into the arms of every beautiful young creature I come across? Because that is utterly absurd!"

He rose slowly to his feet throwing his pen across the desk, smearing it with ink. "Of course, you are right. Forgive me, Watson. It is only my…mistrust of these beautiful young creatures, as you call them, that leads me to this end. I know that you…are faithful to me." He flashed a brief grin. "In every way."

"Then you will dine with us?"

"For your sake, I shall. Certainly not for propriety and comportment's. I have no loyalty to them."

1 Madras was the first major British settlement in India

2 Because Josh is now five years old, chances are he was out of dresses and would start wearing suits with short pants. The most common at the time was the Little Lord Fauntleroy suit-which did not look all that much more masculine than dresses.


	23. Chapter 23

_A/N: Okay, who wants to send me a new computer? Hmm…any takers? __  
__God, I hate this machine. But don't tell it I said that. It'll just __  
__make my life and updates even more miserable…_

The smell of baked chicken, boiled potatoes and gravy, English peas,  
and fresh bread and butter was enough to momentarily distract me as I   
entered the sitting room and the spread laid out by Mrs. Hudson and  
her granddaughter.

With Julia and Josh both there when I walked in, the first thought  
that occurred to me was that we seemed a lot like a family. It was  
the first time in nearly three years that I was to have a meal with  
both Josh and a charming and attractive lady. While I knew that it  
was unfair of me to think of this young woman that I had only just  
met as any sort of substitute for Mary, the thought did briefly  
suggest itself.

And then Holmes sauntered in, flicked the remains of a cigarette into   
the fire and turned to us all with a wide, uneven grin. He was   
immediately in charge of the entire room.

"Well, well, doesn't that smell delicious, now? You have obviously   
inherited your grandmother's culinary abilities."

Julia smiled. "She will be happy to hear that, I'm sure, but as for   
me, my abilities in the kitchen are somewhat limited."

The look on Holmes' face suggested that that was exactly what he had   
meant, although thankfully, he did not say so.

We all sat down and Holmes swiped up the knife to carve the  
bird. "You must forgive my ill manners when we arrived, Miss  
Hudson," said Holmes, graciously filling her plate. "Thoughts of  
decorum occasionally flee my mind when it is examining…other data."

"You are completely forgiven, Mr. Holmes. John has told to me the  
reason for your attitude. I am very sorry for the loss of your   
mother."

Holmes stopped mid-stride in his ladling of peas onto the  
plate. "Did he…well, how entirely thoughtful of…John." Two pieces  
of steel stole into my own eyes and I was forced to clear my throat  
and look away.

"Jul…er, Miss Hudson is leaving for Edinburgh tomorrow, Holmes. She  
is joining an acting troupe with hopes of becoming an actress."

Holmes raised his eyebrows. He seemed pleased at this news, but I  
was fairly sure I was the only one who could see the subtle light in  
his eyes and caught the ever-so- slight smirk that appeared and   
disappeared in half a second. "I should think that you have the  
making of a great stage performer. We have another Ellen Terry in  
our midst, Watson. Although one has to wonder about the sacrifices  
such a young lady would make. It would be extremely difficult to  
manage a family and a career…your future husband for example, what  
would he say?"

"You are being quite presumptuous," said I to Holmes, stabbing a   
potato.

"That is true, Mr. Holmes," Julia added, although her tone was far   
more light and unassuming than my own. "For I can fairly say with   
certain I doubt I shall ever marry. I find marriage far too trapping  
for young ladies nowadays. Why shouldn't we have the opportunity for  
a life outside the house?"

My friend's expression was screwed up as if what Miss Hudson was  
saying was too bizarre for comprehension. But he did seem relieved  
as the young ladies intentions. Or obvious lack thereof. He turned  
to me, nearly glowing. "I suppose the loss is to our own sex,   
Watson. Don't you agree?"

"Most assuredly. For some lucky fellow, anyhow." I more than  
stressed that word.

"I think that you would make a very good mama, Julia," piped up   
Josh. 

"Thank you, Josh."

"What are you basing that on, John Sherlock?" Asked Holmes.

Both Julia and I turned quickly to him. "Excuse me, Mr. Holmes?"   
Said Julia at the same moment I said "Holmes!"

But he merely waved us both away, no doubt thinking he was completely   
justified. "Oh, do not think me insolent. No doubt you would be a   
perfectly charming mother, Miss Hudson. But I am trying to advance  
young John Sherlock's grasp of rhetoric, and the best way to do this  
is to convince him that he must be more logical. He must be able to   
back up his statements with facts and observations."

I could tell that at first she did not think him serious. Who could   
blame her? Only those select few, like myself, who really knew the  
man knew that he was completely resolute on the subject. And for her   
credit, Julia did realise this rather quickly.

"You are serious, aren't you?"

"Of course." He pointed his fork to emphasise the point. "It is   
essential for the boy to learn to see what is around him. He has a  
great propensity for logic, a rare trait in itself, and I shall not  
see him lose it."

The irony of it was so thick that I could have laughed. He was here,   
explaining to us that the boy needed to learn to be observant and  
logical, and yet just a few hours previous I had had a conversation  
that suggested he was becoming far more observant than I would have   
hoped. The very lessons the boy was learning from Holmes could  
logically bring about his own downfall.

I looked at Josh, who had a mouthful of chicken, but he was only   
grinning widely, enjoying the adults discussing him. Surely Holmes  
knew what he was doing. He must realise that if he taught the boy to   
deduce all that was around him, he would deduce the true nature of  
the relationship between the two of us.

"And what do you think of that, John?"

I poked at my food. It was beginning to lose all flavour for me. I   
could not possibly explain what I thought. In truth, I wanted Josh  
to mature with the knowledge I knew Holmes could give him. I wanted  
him to have every opportunity. He certainly should be going to the  
best schools; should be preparing for the most pre-eminent of  
careers. However, in doing so, he would certainly become suspicious  
as to Holmes and I. But there was more to it than that. I had  
already seen it from the moment the two had met, two years previous.  
Josh's nature could just as easily compel him to become a lonely  
bohemian, living within his mind and never his heart, haunted by the  
past. I did not want him to become Holmes. Thankfully, before I  
could come up with any sort of answer, Josh interrupted.

"But I do have logic for thinking she will be a good mother, Uncle.  
She is pretty, like my mother. And my mother was very good."

Holmes snorted at his attempt at logic. "Yes, but the two are hardly   
connected, boy."

"Well, I think it a lovely thought, Josh. And I thank you for it."   
Julia gave Holmes a queer, nearly angry look, and I could not blame  
her. She could not have known that offhand way the man occasionally  
dealt with people. "I would pleased to have a boy as bright as you."

Holmes said nothing, but he scoffed again. The thought of that  
happening only over his dead body seemed to resonate within him, and  
I sensed it. It was Josh that spoke next.  
He looked directly at her, clutching his fork in one small fist,   
kicking at the air in the impatient manner that five year-olds  
have. "I would like to have you for my mother. But I think it is   
alright I don't have one anymore. I have Papa and Uncle."

Holmes laughed, as did Josh, but only because someone was. I tried  
to return my concentration back to the supper, but it was futile at   
this point. No one suspected anything they should not. But I could  
not help but feel anxious, nonetheless.

That night, after putting Josh to bed and having coffee with both  
Holmes and Julia, I went to bed a bit early. The two had been rather   
taciturn, particularly with each other, and when they did speak it  
was mostly directed at me. Both seemed to think the other dangerous,   
although it was clear that they did not think so in the same way.  
When I fell asleep, it was quickly and painlessly, which is to be   
expected after two or three relatively sleepless nights.

I know that I dreamt that night, but I could remember nothing   
specific. The result of it was obvious enough. I awoke feeling  
slightly bothered and un-fulfilled, temporarily forgetting that the  
bed I was in had room enough only for one. It was nearly bitterly   
disappointing. But the oddest part was I could not say who had been  
the object of the dream.

A slight tapping sound on the door shocked me to a more complete  
state of awareness. It had to be after midnight. I took a deep  
breath and tried to calm myself. It could not be Holmes. He never  
bothered with knocking.

She did look equally as lovely by the flickering candlelight as by  
the light of day. "I am sorry to disturb you, John," said   
Julia. "But I wished to say good-bye to you. I should have done so   
this evening, but I as it were I thought to see you once more before  
I left."

I tightened the cord around my dressing gown. "You're leaving? In   
the middle of the night?"

"My train leaves from Victoria at four. I prefer early travel. Less   
crowds."

"Must you really go so soon?" I paused, realising what I was saying,   
but only too late.

She smiled. "I'm afraid so. Won't you come down with me? To help   
with my bag, I mean."

Of course I would. To be alone with her in the dark of the house,  
and then the cool calm of a still black London morning was more of an   
invitation than I needed. She travelled light, only one hold-all .  
In her travelling clothes, less ornate than her dress of yesterday,  
she looked older, more mature. But no less desirable. And me,  
standing in my night shirt and dressing gown, with slippers and  
tousled hair, should have felt quite foolish. Somehow I did not,  
though, in the only few seconds we had before she would settle into  
the already-waiting cab and leave.

"You will, of course, come back? To visit your grandmother, I mean?"

"I am not the sort to make any promises, John. But whatever else may   
happen, I was glad that I have met you today. Or yesterday, as it   
were."

"And I've no doubt you will become a celebrated actress. But if  
you're ever on hard-lines …" But I did not know the proper way to   
finish that promise.

She leaned up to kiss my cheek. "Thank you."

And then I opened the door to the hansom and set the cloth bag at her   
feet. I was quite certain at that point I may never see her again.  
I was also not certain whether this was a fortunate thing or not.

The sun had not even risen yet, and without looking at my watch I  
knew that the hour could not have been later than three. But I was   
completely awake. More so than I had been in months. I could feel  
the blood pump through the veins of my body. In an instant, I had re-  
entered the house and was on the second floor. All was dark and  
still. The only noise was that of my own footfalls on the well-worn  
floor coverings.

I opened the door to Holmes' chamber.

He was asleep, but never enough so that he could not awaken   
immediately. I had long enjoyed the look of him asleep: the soft  
pallor of flickering lights on his face, the quick and jagged rise  
and fall of his chest.

He awoke with a quick jerk and half sat up, remembering himself and   
then turning to me. "Watson? What are you…"

I pressed my mouth against his hard enough to take both of our  
breaths away. He nearly resisted at first, out of surprise, no  
doubt, but gave in quickly. I cannot say for certain what was on my  
mind then, but I tried to not think. Not to think about the last  
time we had been intimate. Tried to not think of revenge, although  
it would have been so easy. I also tried not to use him as a   
substitute. For another being whose image still burned within my own   
mind.

"She's gone, then?" He asked, his voice a raspy whisper.

"Don't talk about her." I growled, and he nodded, submitting to me   
with an ease I had never been granted so effortlessly in the past.

I wanted him. No, in truth, I wanted them both, but for different   
reasons. But I could not have Julia. She was gone from my life  
after less then one day and with her went all hope for a respectable  
life. A polite life that I did not have to hide. A life that could  
have provided a mother for my son, a more stable lover for myself and  
a family that could exist beyond closed doors and darkened rooms.

But I could not leave Holmes. For I wanted this family as well. The   
adventure, the challenge, the need, the possession…the constant  
struggle between us was at times disheartening, but at others,  
stimulating. He needed me, and I him. But I could not have both  
lives.

He reached up with one hot hand to my cheek, lingering for a moment,   
before letting it fall to my neck. Our eyes met. He pulled me hard  
toward him. And I forgot everyone else but him.

It was still very early. It seemed to soon to really begin the day.  
I had left Holmes weak and asleep amidst a mass of twisted  
bedsheets. The only thing on my mind now was a long, cool bath. The  
day would start soon enough.

Just as I was preparing for a long, uninterrupted soak, something  
caught my eye. It was the brown leather book given to me by Holmes.  
His journal. I had not had much time to look at it yet, just an hour  
or so glancing through it on the train. I turned to a random page,   
forcing my eyes to get adjusted to the slipshod writing. It appeared   
immediately that I had turned to a very fortuitous entry.

Of course, the words were in Holmes' own words, the feelings and   
actions his own. But when one sees it from a third-person point-of-  
view, it is so much easier to see how certain things affected all  
that were involved:

Mycroft found his brother in the same place he had been for a month   
now-sitting on his window ledge and starring out across the moor. He  
was pale, but that was from eating next to nothing in days. Other  
than that, he looked completely normal, as if nothing had happened at   
all. No tears, no sobs. He just sat and stared-nearly cataleptic.  
Mycroft frowned upon realising he was not even blinking. And for the  
first time in his eighteen years, he felt both awe and concern in  
regards to his brother. It was as if he could see his entire future  
laid out before him, and knew that whatever lay in store in his own   
career, it would be Sherlock that would make the name of Holmes known.

"Are you not hungry?" He began, because he did not think what he   
really wanted to say was entirely appropriate. Sherlock did not even  
look at him, but Mycroft entered anyway, trying to put on his  
strictest face of authority. "I suppose you are planning to live the  
rest of your life in this room, then?" He moved until he was directly   
behind his brother, so he could see what he was starring so intently  
at. But besides the ancient Elms swaying and whistling in the  
breeze, there was little else to see. "It's not my concern of  
course," Mycroft continued. "If you desire to waste your life in  
this manner…becoming a hermit, imagining the rest of the world no   
longer exists…I gather that's your prerogative. But I have come to  
offer you…an alternate existence."

He thought he may have seen the boy flinch, but it was so subtle he   
could not be certain.

"The fact remains that I have been to see Father on your behalf.  
They-he and Mother-are distraught as well, but I told him that it was   
imperative you be sent with me to school. Near my college at Oxford  
is a very fine preparatory school. It is near enough that I can keep  
an eye on you"- Mycroft was certain that this would invoke a   
reaction, but there was nothing-

"And when you finish there you will be able to go directly to  
University, and of course into whatever career you chose after. I've  
no doubt that you will be a success, of course. And this is quite an   
opportunity for you."

There. He had just offered his brother a chance. He had done it all  
for him. Chanced his father's temper, laid more responsibility on  
his own shoulders, and tried to convince the boy to overcome their   
sister's death. He was the elder brother, the only one thinking  
clear in this tragedy, the rock on which the other's had relied. For  
a month now, he had taken on all the responsibilities of caring for   
both his mother and brother, managing the servants, and making sure  
his parents did not completely isolate the family from civilisation.  
Was he wrong to want a little thanks for all of this?

Apparently so.

"Alright then! If you want it this way, so be it! Damn you,  
Sherlock, I've done my bit in this!" Mycroft was furious now, after  
an entire month not being able to hold his own anger in. "I know you  
hurt over Philippa's death. I know how close you were. But damnit,  
you were not the only one who cared about her! You are not the only  
one who lost someone they love!" He swallowed heavily, feeling the   
weight in his chest return. He still could not think of Jane. It  
made him nauseous.

Just as Mycroft was turning to leave the room, damning his brother to  
a life of cataleptic shock, never allowing the grief and emotion out,   
he at last heard the boy speak.

"It should have been you."

His brother turned, stunned. "Come again?"

Sherlock turned slowly, his eyes dark and narrow. "It shouldn't have   
been…her. Why could it not have been you? I need her! No one needs  
you, Mycroft! No one! But now I've lost her…and the baby…you should   
have been there! Damn you Mycroft! You! You're useless! You're  
just a fat, stupid, useless prig!"

Mycroft's first reaction was one of anger, of course. It was more  
impulse, a gut reaction, than anything else, when he raised his hand  
to his brother. The blood pounded in his ears at this impertinence.  
And damned if he wasn't going to make it known.

But at the last second, inches away only from the back of Sherlock's   
head, he stopped. It seemed as if a force more powerful than his own   
muscle grabbed her and he could not strike the boy. His anger turned   
quickly to shock, for in a complete (about-face) his brother now had  
thick tears staining his cheeks; a noticeable tremble began at his  
lip and rapidly turned into a convulsion that spared not an inch of  
his body. Whether it was actually physically painful or not, Mycroft  
did not know, but certainly it looked as such. The boy began to  
scream with all the agony of one whose very soul was being ripped  
from their body. Never had the elder Holmes brother seen anything  
such as this. Especially from Sherlock.

"Why!" Sherlock screamed uncontrollably. "Why…why…why her!" In a  
sudden move, he jumped from the ledge to the floor, and punched the   
sidewall so hard, Mycroft flinched, hearing the hard plaster crack  
and his brother's hand snap.

Curiously enough, it was that very noise that awakened something  
within Mycroft. The shock at his brother's reaction flew out his  
body and he grabbed for him before the boy could permanently  
disfigure both hands.

Still, even as his massive hands closed around the boy's thin arms,  
he did not stop swinging. Both sets of knuckles had blood flowing  
free and Mycroft knew at least two fingers had broken. Already they  
were turning an unnatural purple. "Why didn't you stop it!"   
Sherlock screamed. "Why…you should have stopped them!" He took   
quite a left to the gut, but still he hung on.

"Why!" smack' this one nearly missed his groin.

"Stop it!" Mycroft shook him, and hard. His head flung back and  
forth like a doll. "For God's sake, stop!"

"Oh, God…she's dead! She really is dead…" his eyes were nearly   
swollen shut with tears now as he looked into his brother's  
face. "Mycroft…" he whispered. "What do I do? Please…you must tell  
me what to do!"

In all his eighteen years, Mycroft Holmes had tried to become the son   
his father wanted: Strong, athletic, unyielding, utterly fearless  
and manly. Up until that very moment, he had held nothing but  
jealously in his heart for more than eleven years. For despite no  
obvious sign from A.G. Holmes, Mycroft easily saw that of the two  
brothers, Sherlock would be the one who would fit this profile. He  
was athletically built, brave beyond measure, unafraid of anyone-even   
their mother-and with time could easily surpass him even mentally.  
Mycroft would finish University, secure himself a safe place in the   
government, but it would be Sherlock everyone would remember a  
century from now. This moment-this weakness in the eyes of one still  
so young-finally broke through all the Shakespearian green-eyed  
monster of the elder Holmes, and he took his brother in his arms.

"I'll tell you what you're going to do," said Mycroft. "You're going  
to come to school with me. I have arranged everything. You are  
going to be brilliant, which is no hardship for you, I'm sure, and  
then it will be on to Oxford and a memorable career. You'll marry  
and have a family and slowly the pain will stop. It will not be  
easy, of course, but there can be no argument. You must do it,   
Sherlock."

Sherlock himself could not even contemplate the plan for his future  
his brother had so neatly laid out. His head pounded now, and he was   
beginning to notice the burning throb of his right hand. His throat  
was raw from screaming and his neck bruised from being shook. For  
the first time in days, he also felt something he hadn't thought  
would strike ever again: exhaustion. He was completely devoid of  
energy. Flopping his head against his brother's bulky middle, he  
mumbled, "I wasn't aware I must do anything, brother."

It did seem hard to believe, and certainly hard to imagine.  
Although still a child, something alone I had a time of picturing,  
such a show of emotion from him seemed inconceivable. It was only  
then that I fully realised just how damaging Philippa's death was to  
him. 

I did have to nearly smile, although not out of humour, when I read   
Mycroft's predictions for his brother. It seemed to me odd that both  
of them would be such brilliant men, yet both grow to be so intensely   
jealous of the other. Mycroft had thought Sherlock would go on to  
marry, secure a place in the government, use his knowledge for the  
good of the country.

Well, he had at least been right on one account.

Yet I couldn't help but wonder just what would have happened had   
Philippa not died. It was clearly her death that was the one  
pinnacle point in young Sherlock's life. Because of it, he had  
decided to use his powers of deduction to help other's avoid the same   
unknowing pain of loss. He could deny this all that he wished. He  
could say that he had decided to become a detective because of his  
need to fight off boredom, to use his mind so he could avoid the dull   
existence of routine.

But I knew there was more to it then that. He was a master of   
concealment. He had concealed his feelings for me, and he had  
concealed the pain that his sister's death still brought him, as well  
as the true reasons he had become a detective.

I closed the book and rose from the bath with the intention of a lie-  
in, but my mind was far from the point of sleep. Holmes had changed   
these last days. The death of his mother and the return home had  
caused him to re-live all the grief of his life. All the emotion he  
had buried deep within himself so very well had resurfaced much as it   
did when he was a child.

And Josh. Josh was surely headed down the same path. The only  
difference was that this time, it was my own fault.

But perhaps there was a solution. A solution for both problems.


	24. Chapter 24

_A/N: In case there is anyone who is not on holmesslash, let me repeat what I already posted there. My computer crashed about a month and a half ago. That's why there have been no updates. Anywho, I'm back at school, and here's a chapter. Sorry!_

Baker Street still looked drowsy and sluggish at that early hour when I ordered the idling cab to Scotland Yard. It seemed to me as I watched the passing scene from the window that the whole of the city was at leisure that morning, no one in a hurry to begin the day. I only hoped that our police force was taking a different mindset. Or rather, one specific man there.

The New Yard1 near the Thames was a lonely looking building, somehow hidden behind a high iron fence that to me characterised what its inhabitants represented. But I was known there and had no trouble at all gaining entrance and passing through a throng of young, cheeky Constables in search of the Inspector.

He was in a back room, an office of sorts, but one that consisted only of a desk and chair, perhaps with a few books strewn about in the corner, as well as a dustbin heaped high with cigarette butts and paper rubbish. The man occupying the chair was leaning far forward scribbling something very fast that caused ink to bleed onto his already stained fingers. The other hand sat firmly against his head, as if trying to hold it up. The face was set in a tired frown.

_The regulars have no fun, I recall Holmes once saying to me. _

_Well, they certainly all can't police in whims such as you, I had replied._ _Think of the rampant crime._

_He grinned broadly. Yes, yes! The rampant crime! I think of it in terms of percentages. A larger crime ratio would mean a greater chance of interesting cases. Think of that, doctor!_

_I reached out for him. I think you are truly evil, my dear…_

I once described Lestrade as having a sallow, rat-like face with seamy dark eyes, or something to that effect. And indeed his outward appearance was not one of exceptional geniality or sociability. Had I met the fellow on the street or in a club I would think to rather avoid him. He seemed to me at one time the worst of the Scotland Yarders-overconfident, brash and careless. The years have taught me some wisdom, though (or so I hoped), and I now knew it all to be unfair judgments. He was a typical Yarder in many respects, but his jealousy of my friend's abilities was not without merit. And more than anything, that jealously was grounded in respect. I suppose that I myself had a certain amount of the same for the man. I certainly would not have been there otherwise.

"Lestrade?"

He dropped his pen, and looked up rubbing his red-rimmed eyes. "What is it?"

I could not help but smile. "Not too busy are you? I didn't mean to disturb."

"Why…Dr.Watson! What on Earth brings you here?" He reached out a hand, but dismissed the other formalities of standing and small-talk, which pleased me. While our relationship was not intimate, we had known each other long enough to dispense with needless niceties.

"I need your help, Lestrade," said I, taking the only other chair. "About a case."

I had supposed he would laugh heartily at this, and I was certainly not mistaken. His pointed nose and chin were thrown into the air as he burst out with a wheezing sort of cackle; his tiny dark eyes glowing at me. I realised then that I had never heard the man laugh. It seemed incomprehensible for a Yarder to show such an emotion. They were supposed to be the lumbering, mindless army of rodents that Holmes had suggested they were to me on more than one occasion. Although now I more fully understood why he thought such a thing. His own prejudice against them never solving his sister's murder.

And then of course, there was my own intolerance. Resonating with Lestrade in a strange way. He was the only man, save Mycroft, who had known Holmes longer than I. And I did not want that to be.

"Forgive me, doctor," Lestrade was saying. "Truly, forgive me, but I simply found it too glorious for words. _You _came here, to _me _for a _case_. Why the deuce would you do that? Has Mr. Holmes taken leave of his senses at last? I always suspected one day he might. There is a fragility amongst geniuses you know…"

"He certainly has _not_, Lestrade. In fact, the reason I must come to you instead of Holmes is…well, this particular case concerns him."

His old chair moaned as he leaned in toward me, mouth slightly agape. "Are you quite serious?"

"Indeed. Or rather, unfortunately."

I settled myself across from the man and spent the next quarter hour telling him all that I knew of Philippa's death-which admittedly was not much. Only what I had read in Holmes' journal. The details, however, seemed far more vivid expressing them aloud to another. The cold chill of a late December morning, the anger in my friend, the thick crowd of people packed together like rats on the street, the bullet that tore through Philippa's body and Sherlock's own heart. Of course, there had been no mention of names-save Davies, so at the time I had no clue of the personal involvement of the Lestrade family. As I was coming to the end of the story though, the expression on the Inspector's face changed so dramatically, that I was about to realise it.

"My God," he mused, rising slowly to his feet. "It is quite an incredible coincidence."

"What…what?"

"My own father," he said to me. "The late Superintendent George Lestrade, senior. He would have been only Inspector then, but his record is quite unmatched. Some of the older chaps around here actually remember him. I, myself, was a robust rookie when he retired. However, the point being that I looked to my father for guidance at a very young age, particularly on all matters relating to law enforcement. I knew from quite a young age I would join the Yard as he did…and partly because of this and also that I was the only son, he would frequently discuss the cases he worked on. Several stand out in mind, examples of his brilliance that he managed to solve. Only one, though, can I recall that always haunted him. The case, perhaps of his career, that he could not solve…"

I had been listening with some attentiveness as Lestrade carried on, but it was the last statement that really perked me up. "Do you mean to say that it was your father that was head of the investigation? Of Phillipa's death?" The journal had very little on the actual murder, no doubt it being too difficult for Holmes to write. He wrote far more from a separatist2 sort of view, as if thoughts he had were just flowing freely from mind to pen.

"Indeed. I recall it vividly. I was ten years or so. Father…my father, was quite distraught. A young girl, newly married, pregnant. A thick crowd of people and no one apparently having seen much. It really was bizarre…I recall him telling me that he found it difficult to believe that so many people would not see a man with a gun. However, these being the dregs of society, they are not always eager to speak up. Of course, how well you already know, doctor."

"Yes…"

His eyes strained against the stained ceiling, leaning back in his chair as he remembered. "I remember little else, I am afraid. It _was _so very long ago…except for two pieces of information. There was a pub, I am sure he said, ten yards from where the body fell. Father always believed the murderer might have been a drunken lunatic who came stumbling out of there. Also, the police surgeon was able to tell that she was shot once, through the heart, but it was a strange sort of wound. As if a very tall man stood over the lady and shot downward at her…"

"You do recall a lot for thirty years distance."

"Yes, but it _was_ the first time Father discussed a murder with me. Before that, my Mother would not permit it," he recalled with a small grin. "I would sit on my footstool in our parlour after supper, when Father would read the late addition of the _Times_. 'George,' he would say in that authoritative voice. 'You must be a better man than these.' Meaning, of course, all the criminals and crimes profiled that day. 'You must be a better man and you must help to make our city a safer place.'"

"I, er, I am sure that he would be proud of you, Lestrade."

"Yes…no doubt yours would be too, Dr. Watson. The famous chronicler of the great Sherlock Holmes!" I was uncertain as to whether there was cynicism in those words, but I gave the Inspector the benefit of the doubt.

We both sat in silence for a moment after that, with Lestrade opening his cigarette case and offering me one, which I politely refused. I could but guess we were both thinking of our respected fathers. He was sure his would be proud. And what wasn't there to be proud of? He had already made Inspector, had a fairly decent record (thanks in no small part to my friend), and had a wife and family. In a way, I had all of those things as well. Service to my country-both medically and militarily, I was somewhat well-known for my records of Holmes' cases, and I had a family.

It was this family I feared that would cost me any sort of fatherly satisfaction.

"I recall there was a child involved as well. Now that I think on it…yes, there was! Why, it was Mr. Holmes!" Lestrade's outburst awoke me from my remembrances with a jolt, and he slapped the desk in celebration of his recollection. "Father had said that the young lady was shopping with her husband and young brother. The husband had stepped into a shop, but the brother was near when the killing occurred. He was both unruly and tempestuous with the police, as I recall it." That made the both of us smile, although somewhat sadly. My poor Holmes…

"I've no doubt he was," said I.

"I had always wondered," said Lestrade quietly, avoiding my gaze. "A man so interested in crime, in solving them, would join the police. Would he not? It only makes sense. His methods-well, they are still fantastic, of course, some of them. But if he could only learn to work properly. With authority, with a team…think how it could advance our understanding of crime and criminals! If only…"

"You understand now why he will not. Why he never will."

"Yes." Lestrade looked forlorn for a brief second, as if he had almost been given a great gift; had held it so near in his own hand, only to be told he must give it back. "I couldn't blame him for it, doctor. If it were my own loved one-my wife, one of my children…the person I cared for most. I would forever feel that distrust of authority-of the Yard-perhaps for all the rest of my years."

"Trust is something easily lost and not so easily kept," I told him. My own situation had made that more than clear in my mind. "You mustn't think it personal."

Lestrade actually smiled at this, clipping me on the arm. "I think it highly unlikely your associate and I will ever have anything close to the intimacy the two of you share. But I respect him and hope he has gained a little of the same for me. I want very much to help you with this, Dr. Watson. After all Mr. Holmes has done for us regulars-this chap in particular…well, I'd like to supply a little satisfaction for him."

I was pleased. Very pleased. Amused and nervous at the irony of the Inspector's words, but more satisfied than anything else. There were no guarantees, of course. After three decades, we were both sensible enough men to know that the death of Philippa Holmes Davies might always remain unsolved. But on the chance that Holmes could close in his own mind the case he most needed solved, I would certainly try.

I left Lestrade with the promise that he would uncover all he could about the details of the old investigation.

The day had turned wet, as often it does during the last days of autumn. The sky was overcast with thick torrents of grey water, and I could hardly see through the wind and fog. The cab was slow in going, inching its way toward Baker Street and I was quite sodden as I traipsed through the threshold of 221 B.

I had forgotten how early I'd departed and was momentarily surprised to see Holmes and my son still lazing over an idle breakfast-porridge for the boy, coffee and tobacco for the man. The conversation halted the second I stepped in, and four curious eyes regarded me. It was a look of affection from the pair, but nonetheless the utterly intrusive glint of two scientists dissecting a mere insect.

"Tsk…really, Watson, what do you mean by rushing off so early in the day and then coming home with wet clothing? How completely irresponsible of you! Why, you might have caught a chill…"

"And then he would have to see a doctor, right Uncle?"

His droll side was something that I was more and more frequently subjected to. From the both of them.

The two laughed, and I ignored the idiots as I removed all that was still wet and sat down to the hot coffee and breakfast Holmes served me. When I was sufficiently warm again from Mrs. Hudson's delightfully strong brew, I said, "I had a bit of business that had to be taken care of early."

"_Did_ you now? How unfortunate that it…forced you out of bed so early?"

I could manage only to clear my throat to avoid smiling at that. I peered into the steam of my coffee cup. His discretion was cryptic, but fading.

"Where were you, Papa? You never get up early. At least, you never used to…"

"Where do you think he was, lad?" Asked Holmes eagerly.

I sighed with exasperation. "Must we do that? Must I be your teaching tool, Holmes?"

An eyebrow arched briefly, as if in surprise. "It is all for the cause of education, Watson. Surely you want the boy educated?"

"Perhaps he needn't be so _educated _at such a young age. Too much knowledge is a dangerous thing."

If Holmes at all caught my meaning, which I could not see him not doing, he all but ignored it. "Bah!" He said with a wave of his hand. "Rubbish!"

"I don't care anyway!" Interrupted Josh. "It doesn't matter where he was. Only that he's here now. We're all three here. Finally." He nearly whispered that final word before looking down into the remains of his breakfast. He noisily slurped at his tea in child's attempt to prevent us answering.

Holmes expression softened for a minute, confused, but he recovered quickly. "Well, not for long, I fear," said Holmes. "It seems I've been called away to Downing Street for the day…possibly the remainder of the week, depending on how many members of the House of Commons are affected. Brother Mycroft was annoyingly, yet predictably vague."

"Have you a new case?" I asked with some excitement.

"Hardly so much a case as a bit of legwork mixed with a dash of common sense."

"Yes, but…shall I come with you?"

"No, no…I'm afraid not. As discreet a gentleman as all know you to be, myself in particular, this is a bit of solitary work. I fear Mycroft would be insistent on that point and it is hardly worth the inevitable headache arguing the matter. Now, if this bothersome business shall take me more than just the day, I shall find lodgings in Pall Mall. For your own safety, it is better I not risk being shadowed back here."

"But Holmes!" I cried "This sounds nothing if not dangerous! Can't you…"

"No, I'm afraid I cannot," he said, rising slowly to his feet with a smile. "You mustn't worry about me, Watson. You have your own secrets to attend to here. Do not concern yourself with mine. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've very little time…" he rushed then into his room, giving Josh a brief pat on the head, and slamming his door behind him.

Josh stood by the sitting room window with the drapes brushed aside, starring at the retreating form of Holmes as he dashed skilfully down the street, carrying a Gladstone bag and keeping his head down. I could only wonder what adventure he was off to.

Off to without me.

My son looked positively the messenger of doom as he stood there, his cherubic face pinched into a frown, his eyes downcast and shown more grey then bright blue.

"He shall be back, son," said I to him. "You needn't look quite so melancholy."

"Yes, but…" he trailed off with a sigh.

"But what?"

He glanced in my direction with a heavy frown. "He's only just come home. And now he's gone again. I wanted him…well, the both of you here with me."

"I am sorry, Josh," I said after a moment of trying to not see him depressed as he was. "But such as it is Holmes and I must have separate lives. We are flatmates and, and partners in business, but that is all. We have our own separate lives to live." I realised after a moment I had just said 'separate lives' twice in as many sentences. I am sure that my face flushed with worry.

But it was unnecessary. Josh merely nodded without comment and continued to stare. He had said that he wanted the three of us here. Could that be merely for my benefit? It certainly seemed as if the only person he wanted here was Holmes.

"And after all, son, you still have your old father with you…"

He glanced at me indifferently. "Yes. I know."

"Perhaps you'd like to start another story? I really thought the last one was brilliant."

This seemed to perk him up somewhat. "You did?"

"Indeed. You are very talented. Perhaps you'll become a writer. There's certainly no shame in that." I smiled, motioning to our pile of old _Strands _lying on the sideboard.

But something in this statement distressed the boy. He once again frowned and returned to his vigil at the window. "No…I can't be a writer…"

"Why on Earth not?"

"I'm supposed to be like Uncle. I _want _to be."

I sat up straighter. "For Heaven's sake, Josh! You must be what _you _want to be. I know that you…care about your Uncle. That you respect him and all that. And that is fine. But he cannot determine what you are to be if you are meant for something else."

Josh sort of shrugged and turned his face farther from mine so that I could no longer see his eyes. I am sure they were still grey. He seemed to be aging right in front of my very eyes. "I think he can, sir." He said at last. "And perhaps I want to let him."

I recall blinking rapidly. What a queer statement! I hadn't a clue what was supposed to be meant by that. But it was clear that the lad was no longer in the mood to talk. Unsure what to say, I left him to mourn as I stared into the fire with a lit pipe. Afterall, I had no cause to feel guilt. My own father was far more absent from my life than I was from Josh's. As for his strange devotion to Holmes…well, there were certainly worse role-models he could pick to hero-worship. I cannot say that I wished the boy to turn out like Sherlock in every respect, but I could not even say I wished him to turn out like myself in many respects. I glanced over at the boy. He had dropped the drape and plopped himself on the settee with a copy of an old issue of the _Strand. _I smiled at that, and tried not to think of all else. Besides Josh, I had enough on my plate.

1 "New" Scotland Yard, sometimes still called that, moved from 4 Whitehall, near the actual Scotland Yard to near the Thames in 1890.

2 Now would be called Stream of consciousness. James Joyce (whom I hate) was the pioneer of this style of writing.


	25. Chapter 25

The morning passed in silence as I dozed in front of the fire. My son was quiet and did not interrupt. It was nearly teatime when I was awoken with a start as I heard both the clock strike the hour and Josh scamper down the stairs as quickly as a jackrabbit to the door. In my less than alert state, it did not even occur to me that someone was there until the boy reappeared with our guest behind him.

"Lestrade?" Asked I, still bleary-eyed from my slumber. "Whatever are you doing here so soon?"

The Inspector seemed keyed up, an emotion totally astonishing for a Yarder. His black eyes were uncharacteristically aglow as he came toward me. "I was so intrigued, doctor that I couldn't help but start in on the files. I knew my father- that is, Superintendent Lestrade, kept diligent records of his cases. When we were moved, the majority of the records were piled unsystematically in the cellar. Needless to say, after five years and some, they remain un-catalogued. Occasionally, when time permits, I will send a rookie constable down to work on some semblance of order…and today, sir, look what was found!"

Although I could guess, he could hardly show me for Josh (his excitement shown in his eyes the size of robin's eggs-rather encouraging given his state just hours ago) jumped in his way and shouted, "It's about Uncle's case, isn't it, sir!"

"His case, lad?"

"He went off this morning to spy on some men from Par"-

"Really, Josh, you needn't go into all that. Let us hear what Mr. Lestrade came to us for." I seized his arm and squeezed with feeling to emphasize. I sincerely doubted Holmes wanted knowledge of his present whereabouts made public, even to Lestrade.

I had nearly forgotten that the Inspector and my son were familiar to one another, but then recalled all the tales Josh had spoken of about all his visits to New Scotland Yard. Whatever the Inspector had to discuss of the case I had brought him, he did not seem to mind a boy only five years participating. Holmes, no doubt, made his exceptional nature more than clear.

"_John Sherlock Watson will be a name all will know someday, my dear doctor," Holmes had said to me late one beautiful night. "Our own blithe boy…"_

He did seem as though he were _our _son. He had the intellect, reason and fascination of Holmes, yet he retained more of my temperament and love of language. He would never be a logician strictly. There was not the disregard of emotion the subject insisted on. Not even to the extent Holmes still possessed. I only wondered if the man was aware of it.

Lestrade thrust a file into my hands and smiled jubilantly. "Father kept diligent records, as I said, and there are substantial notes on each case. However, the Horseshoe Alley1 murder has especially lengthy notes."

"Murder? Who was murdered? Papa…" his voice softened as he re-took the form of a young boy. "Did someone get murdered?" His plump cheeks quivered slightly in fear.

In spite of my immense sorrow for Holmes, and for the death of this beautiful creature, I was suddenly flooded with relief. I petted the boy reassuringly. "Yes, but it was a dreadful long time ago."

"But who was murdered?"

"Your Unc-er, that is, Holmes' sister."

"Uncle had a sister?"

I looked for Lestrade's reaction to the boy's title for Holmes, but he gave none. Fool that I was, I should have realised that the Inspector would have heard this long ago.

"Yes, he had"-

"And she died? Like my sister?"

"No, not exactly…your sister was only a baby and died because she was born too prematurely. Philippa Holmes was elder to your Uncle. In fact, he was still very young and she, already grown and married when the murder occurred."

He thought on this for a brief moment. "He must miss her dreadful. Is that why he looks sad sometimes?"

"Well…I suppose we all are sad at times, my dear. Lestrade?"

"Hmm…oh, yes?" He had been thinking a bit too deeply for my liking.

"Certainly you haven't had time to go through much? Of these notes, I mean?"

"No, no…not in any sort of detail. I though you might care to"-

"Take the night?"

"Ah-indeed. If you wish it." His dark and bulging eyes darted away, and I knew that he had desired us to examine the case together, in his immense curiosity of the matter. But I could not bear to go over the personal details of Holmes' past with another there. It was too close to my own heart. I would need the night alone with the sad history and could easily inform Lestrade come the morrow. He was far more objective than I.

"Alright, doctor…I suppose that it shall have to be. That it is for the best, I mean."

In part, I could understand the man's eagerness. I, too, in fascination and overzealousness, wished to rush off to Horseshoe Alley, immediately put my finger on the villain who would no doubt still be standing there, waiting for some three decades after the fact. I could only think on his happiness if I, the humble assistant, could solve this for Holmes. To repay him for all that he had done for me, including keeping my child from the clutches of my sister. I knew that he was in desperate need for a conclusion to that what has haunted him for most of his life.2

Lestrade stayed through tea and we chatted cordially enough, but about other things. We left the death of Philippa where it belonged-tomorrow.

As he left with the promise of returning after breakfast next, he paused rather uncomfortably in the entrance hall, clasping his hat rather stiffly. Clearing his throat, he asked, "Dr. Watson, I hope you will not think this odd or intrusive, but do you think…I mean to say…"

A million thoughts passed through my mind and my heart in that single second. I began twenty different forms of denial, of anger of shock and confusion. Whatever would be the most convincing. I even opened my mouth to throw out any sort of nonsensical drabble that would convince him that what he was about to say was _not _so. However, all he said was:

"You do no think that Mr. Holmes will be bothered by all of this, do you?"

I was so relieved that I am sure the exhale was enough to knock the Inspector's hat out of his hands. I nearly stumbled over my own words in my eagerness to respond.

"I shouldn't think. I mean, certainly he wants an end to that heinous act. He has all but told me as much. I happen to know that he was devastated by the young lady's death."

Lestrade nodded uncertainly. "Sure enough he was. But I've known the man a long enough while to say that he is overtly private. Perhaps he will not appreciate an outsider meddling in his familial grievances."

"You are hardly an outsider, Lestrade."

"To his public life, no. But to anything else, yes, I _am_ rather."

I had forgotten briefly how little the general public really did know of the man. Even men such as Lestrade, who had been acquainted for years now, really did know so little. Only brief glimpses into his world through my own privileged accounts.

I gave any assurances I could to the man, and admittedly passed all thoughts of it out of my mind. There was so much to learn, so much to do. I just could not imagine Holmes' reaction as any other than what I planned.

That night, I sat in my bed surrounded by papers in various faded inks, reading details of an autopsy, witness statements, geographic locations, possible suspects and motives. Lestrade the senior was a rarity among the regulars that would even have impressed Holmes, had he been able to take an objective view. Inspector Lestrade was certainly not exaggerating in his characterization of his parent.

I read the details of the autopsy first. I fully expected that it would be a shoddy job, having quite a bit of knowledge of the kinds of short-cuts frequented all too often by men of the trade, but was surprised to see that a seemingly decent job of the matter had occurred. The bullet, of which only a partial piece had been recovered, was pulled from the victim's pulmonary artery after having pierced the arch of the aorta. The wound track suggested, as I thought Lestrade mentioned, a downward angle, but the surgeon could not be certain. She bled out extremely rapidly, as is the case with such severe injuries. I could not read the notations concerning the removal of the fetus and other organs.

I skipped into the earliest of observations written by Lestrade and read: _The victim, identified as Philippa Davies, 20 years, female and with child was walking in a northerly direction on Horseshoe Alley, accompanied by a brother, 10 years. Her husband, called James Davies, was selecting items in Wimboley's Dry Goods shop. The victim had separated from the brother in the street next to this shop by some 10 yards, when a single gunshot of similar distance struck the victim in the chest. Exsanguination occurred rapidly and death was immediate-within 20 seconds of the injury. Victim was prostrate on the back, with the head pointed west and the feet east in a large pool of blood. The brother was found next to the victim and had to be physically removed from the corpse. The husband appeared some thirty seconds after the fact and both were retained for questioning. No weapons found. No initial suspects of motives. No robbery apparent. _

There were pages of witness questioning after that, but after even a cursory read I found that most said the same-they saw nothing. People yelling, screaming, pushing, fighting were such common occurrences that none present thought to associate it with something like murder.

_Several persons reported hearing a gun go off, but none seem to have seen the man responsible._

It was odd, I thought, very odd. A man shooting off a gun into a crowd of people should be seen. The very weapon should be seen. I continued on hurriedly, trying to find something that would stand out as singular. Holmes often said that it was the trifles of the case that would proof the most important evidence. The dog that did not bark3; the parsley that did not sink into the butter. Or the tattoo of Bruce Bishop. There must be some such thing in this case. It was just a matter of locating it. There were minutes recorded at an interrogation with the brother of the victim and Inspector Lestrade, sr. I read them slowly and rather sadly. Perhaps I did not have enough objectivity to see much into this case.

_L: What is your name?_

_SH: Holmes. Where is my sister?_

_L: Your Christian name as well._

_SH: Sherlock. _

_L: How old are you?_

_SH: Does it matter? Is it relevant?_

_L: You will answer the question, please._

_SH: Ten years, nine months and a fortnight._

_L: Do you enjoy being obstinate?_

_SH: I enjoy specific facts, sir. That was the specific fact of my age._

_L: Why were you in Horseshoe Alley with your sister and brother-in-law?_

_SH: Must I answer your questions when you so blatantly ignore mine?_

_L: You must. We need to get at the facts, Master Holmes._

_SH: Philippa, Davies and I had walked from Victoria station so that Davies could purchase a Christmas gift for my mother. He did not say what, and I did not care to ask. He had gone into Wimboley's when I was separated…from her, and-_

_L: So he was not with you when the…accident occurred._

_SH: No. Now, where is Philippa?_

_L: We are getting to that-_

_SH: I will know now! Now!_

Holmes became practically belligerent at this point and the questioning ceased. Davies and he must have seen each other, and the elder informed the younger that the one they both loved more than any other was dead. I tried to imagine how it would be. How an event thirty years previous still impacted his consciousness, still affected the mannerisms and daily events of his life. If she had not been killed, it is easy enough to suggest he would have never decided to devote his life to detection. He may have taken up a post similar to his brother, living a life that would have been wholly unsatisfying. The drugs that stimulated his brain may have eventually ceased his very heart beating. Certainly, he and I would never have met. I would be in a very different position now. So it was, that in affect, I owed much to this young lady. Even to her death. I owed her, and her brother, an explanation as to why she had died. She deserved the justice and life that someone had enjoyed for thirty years now.

I shoved the various bits of paper aside with a loud yawn. I had accomplished nothing, really. Everything I had read was obvious, with nothing singular reacting within my brain. I could only hope that tomorrow, consulting with Lestrade and seeing the actual place with new eyes could lend itself to some sort of clue.

My bed felt terribly cold and empty that night and I drifted into the typical uneasy sleep of a man whose nerves could never allow him an undisturbed night's rest. I dreamt that night. It is one of a very few I actually can recall even to this day. Its vividness stands alone. Its complete meaning would become clear to me only later in life.

_I was sitting in a rather large and tastefully decorated parlour, relaxed in an easy-chair made of fine leather. In my hands was the evening addition of the _Times_. A brilliant orange flame flickered against the miniscule black lettering, and I could not read anything specific. I had never recalled feeling so completely…normal. _

_I looked over the top of the paper with a smile, but although there was an occupant in a similar chair opposite mine, I knew not who it was._

_It was female._

_The face and body had no real contour, and was rather ethereal and shimmering. I sensed her there rather more than saw her, and although I could not name her, for whomever she was remained totally mysterious. I seemed to be glad that she was there with me. The other feeling I had was not exactly one of love for this shadowy figure, but rather thankfulness and peace._

_At our feet and surrounding us were several children, at least five in number, and all in various stages of growth ranging from infant to nearly teen-aged. I looked down at them all at the same moment they all looked at me with bright smiles of love and appreciation. Their eyes were glittering blues, browns and greys. My heart soared._

_It was what I had always wanted._

_Until I looked past it all._

_A window, a hole, perhaps even a door or a mirror I cannot say, appeared in the wall opposite. And there was another standing in the darkness so that I could not see his face. Only two grey lights that should have been eyes looked at me, gradually moving farther and farther away. I stood from the chair amidst the protests of the children and the wife to go to him. 'Stop'…they all seemed to be saying. 'Don't go'…'don't leave us'…_

_I did._

_I continued toward the other, whose eyes had mesmerised me and called me forward with his entire being. He too, was begging me not to leave. His words appeared not from his mouth, but from those eyes, so sad, so full of need. And he needed me more. I reached out for his hand but it was like a vacuum that I could not touch nor grasp._

1 In case anyone was wondering, there really was a Horseshoe Alley, but it was in Winchester in the 18th century. I needed a name for the street where Philippa was killed, and did not want to use a real one because I needed a certain geography that had to be invented. Thought this name sounded cool-and fitting. Also, the name Philippa means 'lover of horses.' Okay, that's enough of that…

2 Closure, obviously, but I can't say closure because that word did not become common until the Gestalt psychology of the 20's and 30's. Whether Watson would know of the word and its meaning is up for speculation, as he is writing this circa 1930.

3 The dog that did not bark in the nighttime is from Silver Blaze. I forget where the parsley remark is made, but it is done offhandedly. I'm sure several people have tried to tie such a queer thing into a case…


	26. Chapter 26

_A/N: Thanks for all the reviews for this and Scandal, which should be up in a few days. I hope no one will think me too evil as they read this, although I admit that it is pretty evil…_

The dreams haunted me throughout the night. How many times I was awoken, only to fall back into another nightmare I cannot say, but I felt less than rested when at last the first red rays of dawn broke through the drapes. I awoke bleary-eyed and blurry-minded, reminiscent of those few days in the past when I let scotch-whiskey bury the pain. But if nothing else, I awoke to a new determination. Holmes' well-being was no longer the only thing at sake if I solved this. Proof was as well. Proof that I was meant to be here with him. Perhaps even proof from God above that we were not living completely in sin.

However deprived of restful sleep I may have felt, it certainly was not the case with my son. As we sat down to breakfast together, he immediately began merrily lapping up porridge and tea, kicking feet that still hung far off the ground into the air gleefully. I was far too distracted to even think on such matters as his table manners, so I cared little to correct him. The coffee was especially strong this morning, as if Mrs. Hudson anticipated that I would need such sustenance, and I all but gulped it, trying to force my body and mind to forget the previous night.

Josh reached greedily for a piece of toast, and in munching it, stared at me with blinding blueness filled of childhood curiosity. He was nearly bursting that I might talk to him, and finally I could stand it no longer.

"Alright, old fellow, why are you so wound up today?"

"Well…we're going off with Inspector Lestrade to solve the case, right, Papa?"

"Oh, _we _are, are we?"

"Yes, we are. You told Inspector"-

"I certainly never said anything about a small child traipsing about after us. After all, Josh, this is a murder case"-

"But I can help, Papa!"

"Yes, yes…we all know what a brilliant fellow you are. Holmes certainly brags about it enough. That, however, is not the case. Inspector Lestrade and I have enough on our plates without you to have to look after."

"But"-

"I said no, Josh!" I slammed my hand hard enough on the table to really feel it.

I felt cruel enough in saying this, as it was rather harsh, especially as I was once again abandoning him to an afternoon of helping Mrs. Hudson bake in the kitchen, instead of accompanying me on the one quest he was so desperate to take. But how in good conscious could I really allow him to come? A child of his age, despite whatever exceptional abilities he may possess, has no business dallying after two men discussing something as seamy as a murder.

But I did not know him any longer, and I forgot that. The small creature that had cried into my waistcoat at the loss of his mother, and then into Holmes' at the thought of the loss of myself was hardly still flickering. He had aged only two years, but it may as well have been an eternity for what he was. There was still a child remaining, but it was a child that imagined the world as a young Holmes might, seeing the dark and the shadow, rather than the innocent. I could not blame Holmes, at least not completely, for so negligent had I been that I had not seen it at all until the day we returned from Cornwall and suspected dangerous things of him. And now, he was not crying. He was furious.

"You never trust me!" He raged with his small face now a deep crimson. "I'm not a little baby! I can be as brilliant as Uncle, but you won't let me!" He jumped from the table, and with a strength that I did not even know he had, shoved his chair over on the floor, causing a loud enough 'bang' despite the carpeting. "I hate you!" He screamed loud enough to awaken the dead.

I was so shocked by this tantrum that at first I just sat there watching him. He had never resorted to any of the means other young children use for attention in the past. If nothing else, we had taught him early to explain his wants with words and not to rage about, throwing things, and generally behaving like a lout. He seemed to have too much of a calm nature for such stuff before, so perhaps that is why I was so surprised.

"What in God's name do you think you are doing?" I asked when the surprise wore off.

He seemed to realise immediately that what he had done was wrong, for he stopped and looked so completely shame-faced that I nearly yielded without hesitation. But I certainly could not let such behaviour go unpunished. Whatever else I may have been at fault for, I could not let my only child become spoiled. I grabbed his arm none-too-gently to pull toward me. "You would act so disrespectful right in front of your own father like that? Throwing a tantrum and knocking the furniture over like a common ruffian! What a little prince you've become! I think that Holmes has become far too lenient with you, and you've become too big for your britches, my boy!"

He did at least seem somewhat afraid now as he tried to back away from me. "Are you going to hit me?" He asked, but more out of incredulousness than fear.

"I most certainly ought to!"

"Why?"

I pulled his arm tighter and he cried out1. "You want to continue on with the sass, eh?"

"I only asked why! I only want to know why you never let me come with you! You and Uncle always leave me behind! Why? Don't you…" he paused, and I could see now that the anger was gone and was replaced by growing sadness as he lip began to tremble, despite how he tried to hide it.

I released him. "Don't I, what, Josh?"

He looked away from me and rubbed at his arm. "Nothing."

"No, do tell me."

He sucked in a shaky breath. "You don't…care for me, do you? You only care for Uncle. I've thought about it with as much adduc- I mean, _deduction _as I can, and it makes sense. You want it to only be you and him. Not me."

I could not remember a time when I had ever been so completely flabbergasted. The utter shock erased any trace of anger I had for his behaviour and I was sorry. Ever so completely sorry. I could not even think if this was some sort of guilt ploy on his part, for no one, not even a child could have been such an actor. He was completely, utterly serious.

"You cannot really think that."

He gave me a shrug. "Why can't I?"

"You're my son! My only child! How could I ever…" I shook my head, my own voice more than a little emotional at this point. "All fathers care for their children. I have told you more than once how overjoyed I was when I found out I had a son, have I not?"

"Yes, but that was before…"

"Before what?"

"When it was just you and Mama and me. Before Uncle. Things are different now."

_No, they most certainly are not! _My soul screamed. If there was one thing I desired above all else, it was a sense of normalcy. But always that word; I sensed it from Holmes, and heard it from Josh, and feared it from myself. Different. I was different. My life was different. But truly it was not the _different _that I feared but the unusual. Different meant that things were unusual, even not what they were supposed to be. There was no order, no sodality. Could such words exist in what I had now? I could not say.

My anger soothed, I still refused to give into guilt. I picked up the lad and placed him on my knee to show that all was forgiven, and said: "Yes, things are different. Nothing can ever stay the same, no matter how much you may wish it. You are different then you were when your mother died, as am I, and we both will be different from whom we will be in another two years. But some things will never change, despite the circumstances. And although I may not appreciate…the small things, the small changes in you, that does not mean that I do not understand you. Or want to try to. Or especially that I do not care for you."

I was unsure whether or not he understood any of that, but not because he was incapable of the comprehension, but more so because once he had his mind made up, once he had the deductive answer he searched for, he was so opposed to changing it.

"Will things change again?" He asked after a moment spent in complete absorption. "Soon, I mean?"

"What exactly is meant by 'things'?

"Circ-circumstances." He beamed in his pronunciation.

"I cannot say, Josh. As Holmes would no doubt tell us, it is completely disruptive of the faculties to predict without data."

"But I don't want anything to change anymore!" he announced quite boldly then. "Now that I know the way of things, I want everything to stay just the way it is."

"But you cannot stop things from changing. It is inevitable. You will grow-up, go to school and University, marry and have children of your own. That will be a big change. Your uncle and I will grow older and we will pass away, and someday you will find yourself in my place, with your own child." I reached out to pat his cheek, which he allowed me.

He seemed not to believe me for a suspicious look crept over him. "But Uncle cannot die! He will live forever!"

"Oh, is that what he told you?" I found the thought more than a little amusing.

He shrugged. "No, I just think it.

"Well, I hate to disillusion you, my boy, but Sherlock Holmes is as mortal as any man. Despite what you-or he-may think.

I was sure that Josh did not believe me on this point, for the look upon his face was a familiar one of scepticism, as if everything I said had to be dissected to look for the truth buried somewhere in between. Neither of us was going to push the matter any further. "I'm sorry I was cross," he said at last, in the voice of the boy I recognised. "I know that you love me. You have to."

"Whether I have to or not, I do," I told him, flooding with relief. "And whatever it is that has so upset you of late, I hope that you will know that whatever may change for us in the coming years, my love for you will not. Nor will your Uncles', I should think."

He nodded, but looked as if he had far more to say on the subject. "Something else on your mind?" I asked.

"No, Papa. Nothing that has to be settled today."

I felt the familiar pangs of uncertainty creep unto my blood, but already too much had occurred to bring it up. Whatever else he knew, whatever else worried him, could wait, and I could live in denial a few moments longer.

Something had happened with my son, I realised that with certainty. For what had occurred was far more obvious than any previous moments of clarity I had had. What I did not realise was the importance of that breakfast and the words that shaped it. It was the first of several fights to come. If only I had known.

In the end, as I knew I would, I relented in the row. He had apologised, and although I seriously doubted anything had been truly resolved, I could not help but feel guilty enough to allow him to accompany me. There was another reason as well. I was hesitant to leave him alone as much as I had in the past. To keep him occupied, especially on the rare occasions such as this when I was separated from Holmes, was to keep his mind on other issues that did not involve deducing my life, and Holmes' life. For I know he did so. And I could only hope that his conclusions were still too clouded by innocence to see the truth.

The day was far too appropriate of the mood for my liking. Yesterday's downpour and bluster seemed reluctant to leave, and although the heavy grey clouds had yet to open up, it was inevitable they would at some point. The wind hissed in our ears, and the putrid smell of the Thames was especially perceptible. It was not the sort of day I would have chosen to spend out of doors, wandering a Whitechapel street, worrying about exposing my child to the dredges of life, and still trying to put the pieces of a thirty-year puzzle together. But that was the situation I found myself in.

Horseshoe Alley was located in Whitechapel, near Whitechapel Alley and Buck's Row, thankfully nearer to the Alley than to the horrid slums of Dutfield's and the like. Although technically a middle-class area with decent shops and decent homes, it still begged the question in my mind, _why on Earth would the Davies come here to do their holiday shopping? They certainly could afford the better and the safer areas of the city._

"Papa?" Asked Josh, as we walked briskly from the tube station toward Lestrade and Horseshoe Alley, "How was Uncle's sister murdered?"

"She was shot, I'm afraid…"

"With a gun?"

"There is little else," said I with a smile.

"Yes, there is. An arrow. Or a rifle. That's not the same as a gun." It was his turn to smile at his brilliance as he looked up at me superiorly.

"I'm sure I know that, Josh. Come along."

We found Lestrade with no difficulty. He was holding a piece of paper in one hand, slowly looking up and down one side of the street and then the other, occasionally referring to the paper. The streets were nearly abandoned, probably due in part the hour (it was the night that such places became far more alive with activity) and in part the weather. I had buttoned both myself and my son in the warmest attire possible, but many residents of the area were not so fortunate as to having the means to do so. Despite the weather, however, so engrossed was the Inspector in his business that we were nearly on top of him before he noticed.

"Had a productive morning, have you Lestrade?" I called to him amiably.

He nodded without much enthusiasm. "Not really, I fear, doctor. I took the liberty of making a map of the buildings as they were thirty years ago. There have been a lot of changes, particularly to the shops along the east side of the street, as you can see." He looked up with a tired expression that suggested his night had not been any more beneficial then my own. It surprised me somewhat, for when I had approached him about the case, I had not expected this level of dedication from the man. Was it from want of providing closure to the one exceptional mare on his father's record? Or something more akin to at last being able to beat Sherlock Holmes? To solve the one case that still so haunted the man that Lestrade may at last feel he had reciprocated for all the years of Holmes' assistance.

Lestrade would have had a career as a cartographer, I found as I looked over his shoulder. He was precise in detail, and not a bad artist, which I told him so, despite the many blotches of a carelessly nibbed pen.

He smiled with grace. "I doubt my artistic abilities will be of much assistance to us today. I really never thought until only a few moments ago how much this area has changed. For example, that shop there," he pointed in the direction of a dress shop very near where the body fell, "and the bookshop three doors down, as well as these flats on this side of the street are the only buildings still remaining to what they were. All the others have changed. Many several times over. The pub, for example, where it is theorised the gunman may have come from, has since been a restaurant, a livery stable, an inn and now is back to being a public house again!"

"It is daunting," I agreed. "We may do no good at all. But I shall at least try."

"To put everything in its proper place, the body fell here," said Lestrade, walking over to the spot in the road and kneeling before it. "The shot came somewhere in a northerly direction, probably not more than ten yards away, which would make it very near the public house, as I said. As you can see, the street rises significantly beginning where the body fell, and the only conjecture mentioned in the notes-at least that I recall, was that the angle of the hill is the result of the curious path of the bullet."

The ground looked completely normal, as it should have, although I could not help but think to expect to see the cobblestones still covered in fresh blood, forever staining this place with the life of one so influential. I ran my hand over it, but felt only the cold, grimy texture of rock. The years had washed away any outward signs of the crime that took place there. All that remained where the tattered notes of a dedicated detective and the scars of the one who had suffered the most.

"Could it have come from the window?"

Lestrade and I both turned to Josh. So engrossed in inspecting the spot were we that neither of us had thought to pay him any mind. In truth, I had nearly forgotten he was there at all.

"What, lad?" Said the Inspector, confused.

He pointed at the building which housed the dress shop, one of only two that still remained in the same state as it had been thirty years previous. Both Lestrade and I followed the small finger up the old brick building to the first-floor2 window, curiously slightly ajar, and adorned with a planter of dying flowers. I imagined a shadowy figure hunched down with a revolver, aiming at Philippa Holmes and firing. If she were directly below the window, it could create a bizarre angle for the bullet wound.

"Well, it makes sense, Lestrade," I told him.

He shook his head. "I hadn't even noticed you had brought him along." He laughed and patted him on the head. "Well done, Master Watson! But I fear there is a flaw in your theory. We have several witness testimonials that say the gunman was on the street. They _heard_ the gun from the street."

Josh merely shrugged that minor detail away. "People lie, Mr. Lestrade. Everybody lies."

Lestrade chuckled. "He is so completely cynical, is he not, doctor?"

"You've really no idea."

"I can certainly imagine living with Mr. Holmes is liable to make anyone so, even a child." He turned to Josh. "And although it may be so that everyone lies, you may be less inclined to doubt the witnesses when you hear that one who affirmed the gunman being on the street was none other than Mr. Holmes. In fact, we believe that he may have been the closest to the murderer. He was reluctant to admit it-out of guilt, no doubt- but he was in fact close enough to the gunman to come away with a stain of powder upon his cheek."

I was astonished. "I saw nothing of that sort in your father's notes."

"Yet it must be there somewhere, doctor. I recall it vividly, my father telling me of this boy. For a while…" he cleared his throat and leaned closer to me, almost as if he feared the wind overhearing, "For a while, young Mr. Holmes was suspected."

"What!"

"I know that it defies logic, when looked upon retrospectively. But you must see it from the point of view of my father and the Yard"-

"He was a child!" I exclaimed angrily. "And he loved that young woman! More than…more than _anyone_."

Lestrade shoved his hands into the pockets of his overcoat, and irate expression growing on his face. "Come now, Dr. Watson, let us not be so naïve about this thing. I am not saying that I think Mr. Holmes is the murderer, or even that my father ever had more than the basest of suspicions. But we must consider all the options, and certainly not speak as though the man is a saint. You know as well as I that he thinks himself above the law. You cannot in good conscious say that he has never disregarded a law when it served him purpose."

"But he would never"- I began.

"He was a belligerent child!" Exclaimed Lestrade. "Belligerent, yet clearly advanced beyond his years. You know this! He was close enough to the gunman to manage to get stained with the powder. He was the first to arrive upon the body, and was covered with her blood. And…and, as is most damning, he admitted to being quite furious at his sister's marriage."

"And so in this fury he killed her?" I scoffed, trying desperately to keep my own feelings under control, and it was not an easy task. "I would be more inclined to think that if he were going to kill someone, it would have been Davies, and not Philippa."

"Not necessarily. It has been my experience that people frequently kill the object of their affection, even when a more obvious target is available. It is something akin to the mindset 'if I cannot have you, then no-one shall.'"

"That is not what happened here, Lestrade, and you damn well know it!" How could he even suggest such a thing? Perhaps he would think otherwise if he knew what I knew. If he had Mycroft Holmes' testimony of how upset Sherlock had been…And yet…suddenly a thought crossed my mind that nearly nauseated me. What if the emotional outburst he had shown was precipitated by something other than sorrow? What if it was guilt? Perhaps that was why he had never gotten over the death. After all, I knew all too well that the reaction he expressed was not at all like him. I looked up at Lestrade with my mouth slightly ajar. The cold felt as if it had increased, and was ripping through my clothing. My head began to spin. "No, that could not be the answer. It just could not be…"

"Perhaps not," replied the Inspector in a soft voice. "But you admit that it is a possibility? We must do as Mr. Holmes has so frequently advised us here, doctor. And that is to lay our emotions aside so that we may see clearly. We cannot afford to be biased."

I nodded, but was not sure that I meant it. It was the only possibility that was playing through my mind now. I turned and saw it all play out before me:

_A small dark-haired lad with the hollow, empty eyes of the photograph was before me. He was completely devoid of all emotion save anger. I saw Philippa Holmes next to him and they were talking, although I could not hear their words. A young, fair-haired fellow said something to Philippa, and then dashed into Wimboley's Dry Goods. The boy and his sister took a few steps forward, but they were fighting now. She tried to reach out for him, but he pushed her away. The streets were crowded now. I was losing sight of him. She called to him, but he was gone. I dashed after him, up the hill. I had to stop him. He must not do this. _

_He stopped by the pub. A crowd of drunks suddenly emptied from the door, and once again I lost him. I snapped my head around to see Philippa, but she was merely standing by the dress-shop, trying to call him back. Go to him! I pleaded with the shadows. Stop him! He doesn't realise what he is doing!_

_BANG! _

_No! I cried. Before me, having stood in complete grace one minute, I saw the bullet tare through her breast, and the blood spray like a geyser the second it entered her. She fell, all expression lost on her face in less than a second. I turned back to the hill. The crowd of drunks, having heard the shot, began to panic and shout. The commotion caused people to run for cover. It was impossible to see anything as the cowards abandoned the young lady lying in the pool of blood to save their own skins. _

_And then I saw him again. He was running toward her at full speed. But there was something in his hand. Something that he dropped in the back of cab as he ran by, the nervous horse flipping its head in the air as it delicately tried to avoid the crowds of fleeing people. No…it could not be._

_But I recognised the flash of silver as a small snub-nosed pistol. He had just abandoned it. He reached the body. It was hard to say whether his young face showed fear or indifference. She opened her eyes briefly and recognised him. Her hand moved toward his face. "You…did it, Sherlock…"_

_And then she was dead._

1 Okay, I know this goes against everyone's ideal of Watson as peaceful, gentle, and a great father. So if you haven't figured out by now that he's not a good father, here you go. And also, I know how cruel this all sounds, but keep in mind this is a far different time when parents would frequently beat children. If anything, this is still far gentler than most parents were.

2 Second-floor in England and most of the rest of the world.


	27. Chapter 27

_The little break that I took by no means was intended to be this long. I hope there are still people out there who haven't given up on this story because I intend to really work at it now. I'll have another chapter out tomorrow or Wednesday, and then the rest ASAP._

I could not carry on in so many ways then. The snow, which here thereto had been only a threat, was vengefully carrying out said promise. Thick gales of white came sailing in on a bitter north wind, and my eyes blinded with wetness. In an instant, the blood froze in my veins. Pulling the collar of my overcoat a little tighter round my neck, a great shiver over took my whole being.

"Doctor?" A voice near me I recognised as the Inspectors called into the wind. "I fear we've had it. Perhaps we had better to go someplace from the wind?"

I shivered again, feeling a strange tightness in my innards. My boots were stuck firmly to the already slippery ground. There appeared warmth on my arm, a small blue mitten.

"Papa, are you alright?" Josh frowned up at me with both curiosity and concern distorted in his infant features.

I was not, but asserted the opposite with a terse nod.

"Shall we then, gents?" Lestrade motioned toward the tube, and we headed slowly away from the wind.

The Inspector looked probing despite his awkward position hunched into his clothing to fight the cold. "Are you sure you are well, doctor?"

"Perfectly well," I lied.

"You seemed a bit…pre-occupied when I mentioned a possible theory to the crime. If you are at least considering it…"

"I am doing nothing of the kind, Lestrade! I already told you that what you propose is impossible! Sherlock Holmes is utterly incapable of such a thing!"

He stiffened slightly at my rebuking. "Yes…I forget how much better you know the man."

"You know nothing of it!"

I bellowed this so loudly that despite the roar of the wind, Lestrade, Josh and two passing strangers all stopped in their tracks. The Inspector stared bewilderedly, unable to comprehend what I'd just said. I could hardly blame him, for in all our years acquaintance I had never let a moments flare of temper take me over, but it burst forth so suddenly I had hardly realised what I was doing.

Or how it looked.

"Lestrade, I…I apologise." But of course. For two years now, I had done little but apologise. That was the foundation of my relationship with Holmes. Apologising to friends and family for things kept hidden, and to each other for things we had not kept hidden enough. "I did not mean-er, to shout, as it were."

He smiled, however forcibly. "No harm done. I dare say the weather's gotten the best of our nerves, eh?"

"Yes, of course." I shivered again. The weather had nothing to do with it, however.

It was well past tea time by then, and as our trio was well on the way to hyperthermia, I invited the Inspector to Baker Street for something warm. He accepted with a nod, but none, not even Josh, spoke as we made the journey back. We had accomplished nothing, or so I repeatedly told myself so as not to think on my vision. Yet it was still there, in the back of my mind. The dark-faced child with eyes of ice and clenched fists that I had seen in the photograph of that horrid house remained. Lestrade had said that I knew the man well, but despite that he would always remain the most secretive man I would ever know. I wanted to tell myself I knew him well, but it was a lie. The man I thought I knew and loved had changed completely 4 days ago.

"This flurry seems already weakening," said Lestrade when we were safely warm and drying by the roar of the sitting room fire. "Perhaps we could carry on sooner than expected? Tomorrow, even?"

Mrs. Hudson arrived at that moment with a delightful service that immediately threatened my soggy senses to go wild with libations. "We shall see, Lestrade. I still wonder, meanwhile, if perhaps this was all in error."

"I should think so, doctor!" Our landlady chided, laying biscuits in front of my son. "Rushing off in a blizzard, as it were, and coming back soaked to the bone!"

I laughed gently. "Hardly a blizzard, Mrs. Hudson. It is already stopping."

But she would hear none of this. "One certainly would think that two respectable gentlemen such as yourselves would have developed some _sense_ at this stage in your lives…"

"You would think that, wouldn't you?" Lestrade smiled brightly.

"You really are overreacting, Mrs. Hudson. We hardly felt the brunt of the storm, and I can assure you that our motives were of the sincerest imaginable."

Mrs. Hudson eyed me, (nearly suspiciously in my mind) as she poured the tea. "You know, doctor, sometimes I think you would work yourself to death for Mr. Holmes. He asks too much of you."

"Papa would do anything for Uncle," noted Josh, his mouth crammed with crumbs.

"Yes," said Mrs. Hudson rather distantly. "I realise that, lad." She quickly and efficiently gathered up the remains of newspaper we had used for our fire and departed silently.

I felt the breath leave my body.

Although Mrs. Hudson lived below us, did our laundry and cleaned our rooms, I never suspected she may have suspicions. After all, we were the very definition of care and discretion, and despite the panicked fear that Wilde had unfortunately created in the minds of many, I would never have thought that such a dear old lady as our landlady would have doubts to our characters. Perhaps naivety strikes us near our hearth and home more often than away from it.

I rose from my seat with false confidence. "Would you care for something a little warmer, Inspector?"

"I would not say no."

I poured us each a swallow or two of Holmes's whiskey. Although he kept a supply of spirits in the house, he rarely took more than one drink after supper a day, except in very rare moods. His supply of whiskey was Irish much to my dismay, and I think an attempt on his part not to tempt me with my own familiar Scotch. At that moment, however, I would have drunk anything that would ease my mind. After the first swallow, I allowed myself a second to which I received a glance from the Inspector. The numbness in my toes ceased and travelled slowly upward to my brain. I fumbled the stopper back onto the bottle. Almost instantly, I longed for another glass.

"Colder than you thought, doctor?" Lestrade slowly pushed his empty glass away.

"Yes, rather."

He laughed weakly. "I wouldn't worry, Dr. Watson. After all, it was only a first attempt. Surely if we devote all our minds to this thing-"

"Yes, surely, Lestrade." I interrupted. I knew, though, that I would never solve the case of Philippa Holmes. In a brief flurry of winter that had ironically surrounded us, there laid a sign. God's wrath. His judgment.

"The snow is stopping," commented Josh, going to the window. "Perhaps we could go back?"

It was un-certain to me as to why they were so eager. It almost seemed as if they wanted to push me into it. As if they knew of my need to solve it for Holmes.

"We are warm, then," said Lestrade. "I think the lad's got the right idea. What say you, doctor?"

It was growing dark and I saw the sun through the window slide lengthwise behind a heavy barrage of grey clouds. "I think not."

Josh jumped to his feet. "But Papa"-

"Now I have made myself clear!"

My voice, again, was entirely louder that I had expected. Not only did my son stagger in surprise, but the Inspector winced noticeably. I cleared my throat, embarrassed. It was clear enough that I was making an ass of myself. But as I took to staring at the carpeting like an admonished school child, preparing to apologise once again, I was unexpectedly interrupted.

"Tsk, Watson! How uncharacteristically rude of you! And when we have company no less." Holmes appeared at the threshold in a sodden coat and hat dripping melted snow against the wall, his normally pallid complexion ever the slightest of red from the chill. But he smiled at us all warmly as he removed said articles and rubbed his hands together. "I do hope I have not missed out on anything worthwhile you gentlemen are concocting without me."

"Where on Earth have you come from?" I asked in surprise, hardly registering his reprimand.

"The thick of a brief show of Mother Nature's power. As no doubt did you three as well, judging by your bleary eyes and rosy-tinged noses and ears. I can assure you that the fire and that bottle look all the more inviting for it."

Lestrade took the whiskey I'd abandoned on the side-table and poured Holmes a generous helping. "You have missed out on an interesting day, Mr. Holmes. If not for the sudden change of weather, it may have even been called productive."

"Really? I am saddened."

"Oh? That you have missed out?"

"No, no. That you have nearly managed to be productive without me." Holmes laughed as did Josh in imitation. Lestrade did take the jibe in good humour. However, the only thing I could think on was the direction of the conversation; where it would inevitably end up. I wished suddenly that I had never started down this path. I feared the end of it.

And surely I was right. "Now that you're back, Uncle, we are sure to solve it!" My son announced this as if it were the happiest news imaginable.

"Solve?" Holmes frowned.

"Really, Josh, you needn't"- I began, but was immediately interrupted.

"Your sister's case. We're to solve it!" He beamed up at his idol.

"My…sister…?"

The transformation overtook him instantaneously. It must sound almost cliché to insist the colour drained from his face, particularly given that it is a nearly colourless face as is, but I swear for a brief second I thought he may even faint.

The way he leapt from his seat reminded me so of Josh that very morning that I was certain he would throw a tantrum. But at that moment, it was certainly not rage he expressed, but fear. He starred wide-eyed- first at the boy and then at myself-his Adam's apple bobbing silently. At last he spoke to me.

"What have you done?"

Lestrade, who was not as tuned to the man's emotions as I, laughed. "I say now, Mr. Holmes, what the deuce has come over you? You look as though you've seen a ghost!"

Holmes barely glanced at him. In fact, he seemed not to digest the meaning of the Inspector's words. Rather, he cleared his voice, and said softly, "Gentlemen, I beg of you to excuse me." He dashed across the room and slammed the door to his chamber harshly, leaving the three of us surrounding the table with feelings of astonishment.

"Well, doctor, that was hardly the reaction we had hoped for," said Lestrade, looking at me with strangely with furrowed eyebrows.

"Indeed." I felt the weight of the situation crushing my chest painfully. As was typical, it was left to me to explain Holmes' behaviour in a dignified way that would spare him embarrassment. But truly, how could I possibly explain anything? I flinched as the pain within increased. It was a pain of horrid realisation. I turned to the others with a loud groan.

"I fear I have made a horrible mistake."

A look of confusion crossed Lestrade's face, and I could hardly blame his lack of comprehension. Josh, however, looked nothing if not afraid. "What sort of mistake?" He asked tentatively.

I could only shake my head in reply. "Excuse me, but I must deal with this."

He stood in the very centre of his room with his eyes exactly on the door, so that when I entered, they immediately came into my own. I was uncertain as to whether this was done purposely; that he knew I would go after him, or if he just happened to pick that spot to compose himself. He certainly looked as if he had not an idea as to what to say.

I, too, found myself in a similar state.

My gut-reaction, after I had shut the door behind me, was to take him in my arms, embrace his thin frame with uncertain hands until we had crushed ourselves into one perfect being. Oh, the journeys we could take!

But it was not a viable solution.

He was looking at my hands, as if he could read my thoughts. By now, after so many years, perhaps he could. For a second, I saw the long, agile fingers of his left hand move. A flinch. I thought he may reach for mine, but he did not. Instead, his eyes fell hollow and downward to the drab, threadbare carpet of his floor.

"You will really have to practise more," he said quietly, "if you wish to mislead me, doctor."

"What? Mislead you?"

"I knew something was wrong the second I saw your expression. You would have made a terrible actor, I fear1. Dilated pupils, creased brow, red in the face…drinking at least two whiskies." He looked up harshly. "You only drink such when you are worried about something. Certainly, you were not expecting me back before this _thing_ of yours was over"-

"That's not true! I only wished to help you!"

He was far away now, so far I could not have touched him without moving. I could actually see the tremendous space between us.

"And why ever would you think that reaching you claw of a hand into my very body and ripping my beating organ from it would help!"

"You are not right because of it!"

"Of course I am not! But surely, doctor, you could not have had the monstrous egotism to presume that you had any sort of ability to fix it!"

I could barely hear the words he shouted so. Certainly Josh and Lestrade could hear as well. I had always thought of him as the egotistical one of the two of us. Had I really thought I could fix him? If indeed, such a cure even existed. I was a medical man; it was my profession to heal. But not like this.

"Holmes," said I more softly. "I thought if you had an answer to your sister's case, you may begin to heal from the wound"-

"You thought, did you?" The way he did not look at me made me more nervous than the time of our first unexpected kiss so long ago. He would not look at me.

"When we were in Cornwall," I tried to explain. "Mycroft told me that perhaps an answer was what you needed. He said"-

"My brother is a pedantic, self-serving egotist! He knows nothing of my pain!"

His pain. The nearly shrill edge to his voice, the ferocity and desperation with which he spoke made me ever so anxious. I stumbled backward a step or two. In less than a second, the grey of his eyes were upon me, studying rapidly. Immediately, that grey hardened to stone. It was a look I had never received from him before, nor was ever to receive again. A look of…well, disgust is really the only word for it. Disgust and betrayal.

"But indeed there is more to it than that. Is there not, my dear doctor? Certainly, I can forgive your philanthropic misdeeds up until a point, but there is more. I can read it in your silence, your careful dissection of my choice of words. Your care in deciding what you and Lestrade certainly have discussed. There is another reason for the expression upon you face when I walked through our door." He paused, and for a moment I thought him unwilling to continue, as he brought his hand up to his lips, touching them softly. They moved slowly down to the prominent chin were they remained a moment longer before at last curling into a tight fist, with which he slammed into the wall so hard I myself cried out in surprise.

"You think I murdered her, don't you?"

It was a horrible fear with which he cried this, hardly the anger one would have expected. But it made no difference. He had said it. And our lives would forever be changed because of it. Not so much in the statement itself, but in the fact that we both knew it to be true. He must have been able to see it in my face. He could always see far more that I intend, no matter my efforts. And I could not look away, despite my shame.

Holmes nodded tersely, as if he were either deciding something or accepting the situation. "Alright then," said he, as his voice regained something calm and authoritative once again. "Provide for me. Provide for me a…scenario, if you will."

"What?"

"A scenario! A plausible solution! Provide for me a series of events that will fit the known data. It must be a series of events that will connect to each other like the links in a chain."

I stiffened in fear. "Really, Holmes."

His eyes blazed toward me. The gas jet flickered. "You will do this. For me."

"Will I? And why?"

"Just-logic, man! I can forgive logic!" His face distorted in near anguish. "But not blind irrationality! Not…passion! How can I forgive that? For God's sake, John! Provide me with a plausible solution!"

If it was anguish, I knew it to be real. There was hardly an occasion for such furious passion from the man. In fact, it was the only occasion. And to prove it, he had used my Christian name. There was nothing I could say to counteract this, other than to give in.

I sighed deeply, trying to force all the tense dreadfulness of the situation from my lungs. It did not work. "Alright," said I softly. "For you, then. A plausible solution." I could hardly think as I spoke, simply allowed ten and five years of observation, realisation and imagination to spill from me. It was both painful and freeing to do so.

'_The boy's heart is like flint now. He feels the weight of the gun in his hand-its cold steel matches his eyes. When he stole it from his father's gun room, he was not sure what he meant to do with it. It was not something he thought about. He just did it. Davies had left them, and they were alone now. "Sherlock, please!" Philippa cried, but he ran off and left her. The anger within him was like a disease, and he knew of only one way to stop it.' _

_'He wasn't even sure he meant to kill her. No, he definitely did not mean to kill her. But the gun seemed to have a mind of its own. BANG! He watched her fall. Like a bag of rocks, she fell into a pool of blood. But it wasn't his fault, someone had hit his arm, messed his aim. He throws the weapon into the crowd. Probably someone picked it up and took it with them. It's worth a week's supply of food at pawn.'_

_'People heard the shot, of course. They run amok like frightened cattle. By the time he reaches her, she is nearly dead. The realisation of what he had done hits him so immediately he falls to his knees. It is the pivotal moment of his life. Watching this most horrible sin, he realises than that he will donate the rest of his life to making up for it. To erase the crime from his brain. In vain.'_

_'He can never love again, to be sure. After his brother saves his sanity and sends him to school, he begins his attempt to lose all emotion. Science is his world now-chemicals, minutia, crimes. It is a world of complete logic with no chance of ever becoming what he once did, if only for a moment, at the age of ten. When he let emotion so overtake him that he bared himself from ever feeling again, save the occasional remembrance of his sister in a solo violin performance. He will never be vulnerable again. _I have never loved2, _he once said. And whenever that Euphoric logic is threatened, he uses stimulants to keep the demons away. It keeps him sane.' _

_'But then something happens. His life of cold steel is replaced by something unexpected. He needs someone to share lodgings with. And suddenly, with a smile and a shake of the hand, he feels the metal begin to melt. He cannot help it. Try as he might to occupy his mind with cases and cocaine, therein lies a thought that he cannot purge. It grows within him until it is all he can think of. He must leave-hoping that distance will be enough to erase these feelings. It may work, but only for a short while. Staring down at the raging waters of Reichenbach many years later, he at last had told. There was nothing he could do now. It was all out.'_

"Or rather I suppose _now _it is all out," I said. "It all…fits." I could have kept going, but as I paused for breath, I stopped. So completely befuddled did my audience look that there was no way I could have continued. "How's that, then?" I asked the slack-jawed detective. "Is it plausible enough for you to forgive?"

He was a master of disguises. How many times had he fooled, even me, and how many countless others? Yet I had apparently been seeing though the mask he wore daily, the most common one, for far longer than I realised. Diagnosing him was not something I had ever done deliberately, but involuntarily in my mind I must have been turning over the minutia for years. Saying it aloud, putting it in order, made every bit of it seem so completely logical. He was a unique being, a singular man so very unlike any I had or would ever meet for all the rest of my years. Yet, in the madness we lived, there was a method in it.3 Each event in his life and each aspect of his unusual nature amounted to my aforementioned definition of him. Oh, how completely sensible it was! How both brilliant and astonished I felt at that one pivotal moment! But I knew also, seeing the vulnerability, the fear and the entrapment that he wore, that no matter the _rightness_, the _accuracy _of what I had said, I had ruined a man in that rightness. He was more my equal right then than ever he would or had been.

"Well?" I repeated softly when still he remained silent. "Speak, man."

I watched as his eyes rose slowly from the spot on the floor in front of me that they had been studying. For a brief second, but only a second, they met mine in an expression of confusion that made me doubt he knew me. That hardly lasted, but it was enough to cause a chill in my spine. His eyes fell again, and he nervously patted the pockets of his coat. In search of tobacco, no doubt. He must have mislaid his case, however, as he ceased and took a very deep breath. I could not help but notice how his shoulders slumped slightly as his back was toward me. He normally stood tall and authoritatively. "Well, Watson," his voice was hardly audible, "you've done it really well. You ought…you ought not to downplay your own abilities as much in those little fictions you fancy writing so well."

I thought I may not be able to breath. "So I am…correct, then?"

"Are you?"

"I certainly hope I am not!"

We regarded each other coolly and desperately. Although when I thought on this climax of our relationship later in life, I was certain the desperation was far more on Holmes' part than mine. He, with his superior mind, knew what would happen, how this would end.

Badly. Tragically.

But it would be years before I would realise that. Years before I would realise how much we would both lose because of a few crucial days. If only I had known.

1 A direct contrast to what he told Watson earlier

2 In DEVI, he tells Watson, "I have never loved, but if I had, and the _woman_ I loved…" Of course, we know that this was merely his biographer covering for him 

3 Polonius, from Hamlet-"Though this be madness, yet there is method in 't (II, II, 206)


	28. Chapter 28

_Glad to know there's people out there still interested. Thanks for the reviews! You guys are awesome!_

Inspector George Lestrade was a gentleman to which Sherlock Holmes and I owed much more than anyone could have imagined. On the surface of it, this seems ironic because most know how much Holmes had done for Scotland Yard, and Lestrade in particular. At least a dozen criminals by my count were placed in Lestrade's hands by my friend, and that was only during my time and in my ever-aging recollection. But what no one knew of the man was something I shall now put into words for the first time: He knew of us. He surely must have known.

Now, this was something never discussed, of course. Certainly not with the Inspector, nor not even between Holmes and I, but all three of us certainly had it in the back of our minds of this certain danger that must not be named. When first I met Lestrade, I thought him an indifferent Regular, hardly noteworthy. Holmes himself seemed to agree, and although he thought him to devoted and tenacious, he had called him a complete imbecile on more than one occasion. However, as time passed, his tolerance for Lestrade seemed to steady. Holmes no longer referred to him as the worst of the Regulars. He may have still thought him so, but his honourable disposition seemed to have changed my friend's mind. He knew how much he owed to Lestrade's silence.

While I stood in Holmes' bedroom-chamber watching my relationship with him shattering like glass around me, poor Lestrade was forced to wait in complete confusion mere feet away, with only Josh for company. It was years later when I asked my son what, if anything, Lestrade said to him that day, but he was stubborn and merely shrugged the question away. "You can hardly expect me to remember," he had said bitterly.

I most certainly could, but did not push him. Josh was frequently moody and defensive when he thought it justifiable to be so. I never asked him again.

Holmes and I had reached a stale-mate. We stood before his bed just starring indignantly at each other. He could not order me out because to do so would have been to order me very much farther away than his chamber. For myself, I saw still an edgy vulnerability bouncing about in his grey-eyes. He was not one to maintain eye-contact for extended periods of time, for he usually flitted across the room visually at speeds that satiated his unending need for data. But for those few moments there then, he seemed unable to look away from me. He appeared much in shock. Much afraid.

For hours we might have stood, statue-like, if not for a gentle rapping upon the door. I cannot say why Lestrade stayed. Some amongst you may think it un-gentlemanly to remain a guest during a dispute in which they have no part, or you may think (perhaps rightfully) that it was un-gentlemanly of Holmes and I to row when a guest was present, but either way it was done. He had heard the words we had shouted. The passion with which we had shouted them. I wanted to think that perhaps he could have excused our emotions as two friends long-suffering the other's defects, but I had logic enough within me to know that to be highly unlikely. He was not the imbecile Holmes labelled him in previous years. He knew it to be more than that.

"Gents," the Inspector's voice can from behind the door, strong and clear. "So sorry to interrupt. Err…hope you don't think me rude, but well, mind stepping out for a moment?"

I felt nearly nauseous myself. As this entire scene was playing out, I had had it in the back of my mind that we had a party to this incident, but the suddenness and ferocity of it prevented my stopping it. And now, it was time to pay the piper for our impropriety.

Holmes knew how this must appear, of that I am certain, but from his straight back and head held high, one would have surmised that the indiscretion he had committed was mild. He opened the door completely calm and straight-faced. I watched in amazement as one eyebrow raised itself in superiority. It was a characteristic trait of the man, but to see it now, when it was so clear that Lestrade had the upper-hand was mind-boggling.

"Well and what is it then?" said Holmes as he crossed to face the Inspector face-to-face. He circled him like a wolf ready to strike his prey. He was nearly daring him to speak.

"I only-well, I think perhaps it was rude of me to sit and listen on such an int-err, when you clearly desired privacy, but I could not depart without offering"-

"Yes?" Danger glistened in Holmes' eyes as they shot open.

"My apologies, of course."

"And what, prey, are you apologising for?"

"I have unintentionally angered you, as is clear. But I can assure you, Mr. Holmes, that Dr. Watson and I were acting on good faith. We-the both of us-only wished to do you a service. I can see now we were in err." He turned to me as if surprised at my silence. "Isn't that so, doctor?"

"Most assuredly, Lestrade," said I in a dead voice. I lowered myself into my armchair by the fire. My temples began to throb uncontrollably.

"I have no doubts as to your intentions." Holmes gave him an indifferent wave of his hand. "You needn't worry, you are forgiven."

It should be pointed out that he was clearly talking only to Lestrade. I was to be ignored completely on the subject of forgiveness.

This appeared good enough for the Yarder. He had stood with arms crossed from the second we had appeared from Holmes' chamber, twitching noticeably as his eyes darted about uncomfortably. He could not look the pair of us in the eye. With the briefest of nods, he backed toward the door. "Alright then. You will forgive me understandably, if I say I had better leave now. I feel quite…the proverbial third wheel."

Never had I seen a man look so completely unsettled. My head became almost unbearable. Had I been alone at that moment, I would surely have screamed in agony.

But Holmes seemed completely unaware of either my own or Lestrade's angst. In fact, if anything, he was a picture of composure. With his hands folded behind his back he said, "I would appreciate it if you would not leave, Inspector. In fact, I had hoped the two of you would accompany me on a short rendezvous."

I looked up. "Are you mad?"

He replied with a contemptuous glare directed at me and walked out of the room wordless. Lestrade watched him, almost shaking with nervousness now. "What…what is he doing?" He asked me.

"I have no idea."

"Well, I…I really should go." He made it to his feet. "I shouldn't be here."

_Neither should I. _"Lestrade," said I, in a rambling sort of way. "Please don't…I mean, you must not think too much of what…has happened. We never meant…it is not as it may seem"-

"Not going so soon, are we, my dear Inspector?" Holmes had returned with his arms full of hats, coats and various other winter adornments, which he dolled out. "Certainly you do not wish to depart before I explain what happened to my sister?"

At that, both Lestrade and I felt our jaws drop. "Are you quite serious?" I ejaculated. "You _know _what happened to her?"

"Why, Watson, you surprise me. Do you really think, knowing me as you have, that such a case as this I would allow to go unanswered for so long? Come now!" He motioned us out and charged down the stairs as he threw on his overcoat. He was to the front door before we could even react. Still in shock though I was, I was filled with curiosity. Shaking my head, I followed.

For speed, we took a hansom to Horseshoe Alley, a journey that was so uneventful that I barely recall if anything was said at all. I am sure that we all _wanted _to speak, particularly to Holmes, but he would not have told us details before he was ready had we begged on our knees. Lestrade and I were strangers on that ride.

It was still bone-chilling cold when we arrived at the scene of the crime, but all that remained of the storm were a few drifts of black powder blowing from one side of the street to the other. Immediately, I was flooded again with images of a boy and a gun. Damn Lestrade for mentioning it in the first place! And damn me for even considering it. Why couldn't I simply trust that Holmes was not capable of such a horrific crime?

"It was right here. She fell next to this dress shop. It is still here, after all these years." Holmes walked slowly to the spot Lestrade and I had studied, the spot on the east-side of the street just before the grade began to rise. "How little it has changed…" He mused as he kneeled and ran his hand lightly over the ground.

"But that is hardly true, Mr. Holmes. In fact, this dress shop and that bookshop are the only ones that remain as they were three decades ago. Well, and a few flats opposite." He motioned vaguely to the other side of the street.

"I am sure I realise that, Lestrade. I meant only that this spot-_this_ spot where my sister died-is still exactly the same. If you and Watson had seen that, as I did, then you would also see that one part of this mystery is absurdly simple."

"Come now, Mr. Holmes, you cannot say that anything about this is simple," Lestrade looked anything if not disturbed by this, probably because his late father's reputation rested on this business, "not even you will convince me that this was anything but grotesque and elusive."

"Ha! Grotesque and elusive is it? And If I told you I was all of ten and five when I solved it? Would you still think it so?"

"You were fifteen!"

"Indeed." He paused, remembering, and having read in his journal how changed he was after the murder, I am sure the memory was not one he had thought on in a very long time. "Although the only surprise you should have is that I waited _that _long-four years…I had been at school, my second-to-last year of College1and after having lived those four years in melancholy solitude, at last it became too much. I left school one night, climbing from my window three stories up and bee-lined straight for London."

"My first day here, alone in London was one that I recall as having taught me one of the most important lessons I have ever needed to know as a consulting detective- never allow emotions to cloud your objectivity. To be sure, this could even be considered _the _pivotal lesson. But I was young, and knew no better. At first, all I could see was the pain within my own heart. Objectivism was impossible. But after a day or so spent in renewed grief, I forced rationality into my mind. It was a marriage that remains today."

And it was, but not to the extent Lestrade must have thought. I tried not to flinch too much when this was said. It was clearly for the Yarder's benefit.

Holmes gazed at the spot where he kneeled a moment longer before jumping to his feet. "It seemed to me that there must be something obvious that had been missed. Because I had spent so much time playing over the events in my mind, I immediately closed in on two peculiarities. One-that of all the people that were on the street that day, no one claimed to have seen the gunman, and two-the obvious curiosity of the path of the bullet. The first of these seemed a question that might answer itself if I could answer the latter, so I focused on this."

"To begin with, I knew that the murderer had come from the street. The police surely must have known this as well"- he glanced pointedly at me- "For it was clear that he must have been standing very near me when it happen. I felt the gun blast on my face."

"Then you…I mean, did you _see _it happen?" I asked. How horrible it must be to realise he was standing right next to the person, and have been unable to stop him. I knew the feeling of arriving just too late to prevent a tragedy.

"When later I reflected on it, I did. At the time, no. I had no idea that mere inches from me was the man that would end-for a time-my will to live." Clearing his throat, he continued quickly, "But now that I knew exactly where the bullet had been fired from, it was easy enough to see the answer to my second question." He made some wild gesture with his hand-first it flew up, and then straight down. Lestrade and I glanced at each other in confusion. Holmes was on a complete tangent now, his mind racing as he rattled off the details of his genius. As was typical, the Inspector and I could hardly keep up. "Do you not see it?" Holmes sighed impatiently as we stood and watched him run nearly halfway down the street, up the hill and stop. "Here was where the gunman stood!" He yelled before running back to us. "And here is where the body fell. We know from the autopsy that the angle of the bullet nearly entered the neck at a ninety degree angle. But if the gunman was firing at the distance I just showed you, we know that simple geometry rules out that the gun was fired and hit Philippa directly-that is, unless there was interference of some sort."

"In-interference?"

"Indeed, Lestrade. I wonder as to why the Regulars didn't see it. Or perhaps, I do not," he snorted and wiped away the sweat gathered on his chin. "Certainly it is not the first time _your _people have missed the most obvious of signs as to the explanation of otherwise simple problems."

Now Lestrade, much to his credit, had been calm and patient up to this point. If our positions had been reversed, I knew that I would have taken Holmes in shackles to the Yard about an hour back. But we all have a breaking point, and Lestrade at last reached his. "Now, see here, sir! That is quite enough! You may think yourself above all of us at Scotland Yard, but I can assure you that this case bothered my poor father for the rest of his years! _You _might have done something to relieve it, if you had told him the truth…but you took the matter into your own hands!" He snorted as his face reddened and he looked away.

Holmes' eyebrows rose in shock, but it was me he turned to for support. There was little I could offer. I agreed with Lestrade, truth be told. After everything that had happened, how could Holmes brag about as he was, and expect us both to rejoice in his brilliance? "I think you owe Lestrade an apology, Holmes," said I.

"An apology? Pshaw! I can see that you really have no desire to know the truth. Perhaps…perhaps my telling you is not the right thing to do. If you have everything handed to you, the mind tends to grow weak and needy." He glared heavily at the Inspector. "I have given you the first links. If you care to finish the chain, by all means, do. If not, I tell you it matters little to me. I have within me the truth."

And then he turned abruptly and walked away into the wind. I saw him hail a cab and disappear into it. I was not sure what to say other than to offer my apologies. "I set this chain into motion. I see now that I should not have."

"How do you live with that, doctor? Truly, he is…well, I know I could not."

I feared Lestrade was right. I knew now. I could not any longer. It was a bit of cold logic that came over me suddenly and fearfully. After today, I knew what the answer had to be. I took the Inspector's hand within my own unasked and shook it mildly. "Thank you," I told him, "For assisting me with this. I hope one day to repay your… good judgment." I left him there and headed into the same direction as Holmes.

After I abandoned Lestrade back on Horseshoe Alley, I returned to Baker Street and the evening departed rapidly. Soon the hour of nine was making itself known loudly upon our faithful grandfather clock in the hall, and I saw fit to see Josh, who had been eerily and uncharacteristically mute most of the evening, to bed. When his prayers had been said (in a voice so quiet I could barely hear), and he was safely sealed away in his little attic-room, I allowed myself a deep breath. With back straightened, I descended the staircase to do what must be done.

The fire was dwindling down to a few red embers and a thin layer of smoke. Holmes sat in front of the remains of it leaning on his elbows, his hands on his chin. The light glowed softly on his smooth hair and unshaven face. He stared at the northern wall, the one sprayed with bullet-pocks spelling 'V.R.' It was impossible to tell whether he was actually seeing it or seeing _through_ it.

I walked slowly as if afraid I might fall. This single room was the one I had spent more time in than any other of my adult life, and yet now as I looked on it, our sitting room seemed to me an alien place, somewhere I had never been before. It was a queer feeling. A disturbing feeling.

I was opposite him as always, taking up the poker and thrusting at the remaining coals. The scuttle was nearly empty, except for a box of cigars. I knew of course that he kept some there, but these were Cuban, an expensive and favourite of mine. He must have gotten them today and slipped them there without my knowledge. The poker slipped from my fingers with an obnoxious thud. Somehow, the knowledge that he had made this gesture made the heaviness in my gut increase.

"Do sit down, Watson," said Holmes without taking his eyes away from the ruined wall. "It is quite unbearable when you pace about so."

Now, I had not been pacing about in the least. I obeyed, however, without argument. My wicker armchair, usually the very definition of comfort on such occasions as it was just the two of us, that night felt confining. Every muscle of my body was taut as a bow-string.

"That's better. And now, tell me what you came to say, what you have bee wanting to say since our return from Cornwall, if not before that?"

"I have no idea what you mean."

"Ha! Of course you do, doctor! Do not play the fool! I, for one, will never allow you to be one again, after what you said today." He leaned toward me with a glisten of the remaining fire pulsating in his pupils. "Tell me, now."

"But today-I hardly _knew _what I was saying"-

"Rubbish! None of that, now! Tell me!"

"Tell you what?"

"Stop the absurd games, Watson, and be done with it! Out! Out!"

"Alright! You killed her, didn't you!"

I had hardly known I was going to say it before it escaped in all its horror. A rush of fear overtook me and I immediately started blubbering apologies. Holmes, however, did not look the least bit perturbed by my question, rather, he looked as though he had expected me to ask such a thing. But then, as I spied a trace of superior smile creep upon the man's face, a sudden realisation came over me. "You-you baited me!" I exclaimed wildly. "You wanted me to say that!" I watched angrily as he reclined himself back in chair with a full grin now that needed no verbal answer. "Why?"

"Why, what, doctor?"

"Why would you do such a thing?"

"Simply because it was something you needed. You needed to say it. But in all you faith and camaraderie, I knew you would not unless I forced it out of you."

"Any normal man would find that a dirty trick, Holmes."

"Do you not consider yourself a _normal _man, then?"

_Not for some time. _"I hardly know anymore."

This seemed to disturb him and his face lost momentarily the mask of the master and became the pale, lined face I cared most for. "You shouldn't say such things," said he softly.

"Shouldn't I? It is the truth after all."

"Watson, please! You are as normal as any man!" His hand fluttered against his knee nervously and I thought he meant to reach out and take mine, but at the last, he failed.

I sighed deeply, not able to see it as anything but a final sign of what I knew to be true within my own heart. There was nothing normal about any of this. "My dear Holmes, you are hardly a man able to judge such things. In all your brilliance, your uniqueness…your irregular nature, you are the last man to judge what is normal."

"Hmm…'tis an unweeded garden2. You must know that 'normal' is as arbitrary a word as is 'beautiful,' 'ugly,' 'wicked,' and 'good.' It is a word without meaning."

"But I feel its meaning in here," said I, tapping my breast. My reply was a glare that clearly told me he wanted to argue the point further, but he must have seen that he would not convince me otherwise. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out his cigarette case, and lit two of the noxious things. Handing one to me unasked, he said

"Do you really think I killed Philippa?"

I puffed it and it burned my palate with a terrible taste. His tobacco was too strong for my liking. "Must we do this?"

His eyes flickered. "It is impolite to answer a question with another"

The frustration in me was growing. Soon, I doubted I would be able to control it. "Why can you not just tell me what happened? You were prepared to earlier. Just give me your word you did not kill her and I will accept it."

"Accept it, but not _believe _it. No, no! That will not do. If I cannot have your unconditional trust"- he paused, realising the irony of the statement. Two years previous, on a rainy day in the Swiss Alps I had begun down a path that had led here with the similar words: _Why can't you trust me? You never trust me! _A slight tremor overtook his lip. "I can see I do not. Nor can I with complete inequity blame you. But that is not the only stumbling block, I perceive. Come, come! Let us discuss them while we may."

I shook my head. "But what is there to discuss? You cannot change the state of things."

"What things? Society?"

"I would say so! Why, after Wilde"-

"But Wilde placed the noose around his own neck. His executioners could hardly have done otherwise to him without a public outrage. You certainly do not expect to end up like that Irishman, do you?"

"It has certainly passed through my mind. Hasn't it through yours?"

"Of course-in a moment of complete fancy. But it is illogical. Wilde is everything you and I are not. Flamboyant, loud, indiscreet…in my mind, he chose to nail himself to that crucifix as a martyr. It is not a choice I am prepared to make. I am far too selfish." He smiled, but it was hard to tell whether he spoke plainly or in jest. Selfish though he may have been at times, it was not in Holmes' nature to discuss a fault.

"It may be illogical," said I, "but logic does not factor in such matters. That is why emotion is opposite of logic. Holmes…"

"Yes, I know." He lit another cigarette and raised it nervously to take several long puffs. "It is not the great unknown public you fear. It is the great known private. Mainly, John Sherlock Watson."

My son was a plague that had haunted the back of my mind since the beginning of this Cornish affair.

"So you still think Josh shall be the downfall of you and I?"

"Bloody Hell, man, no! I think _you and I _shall be the downfall of him!"

It was something that he could not argue with me. I saw that in the way he blinked heavily and turned away from me.

"I am sorry," I whispered, barely audible. "I wish I could change the way of things."

"But you cannot." He seemed to be studying the burning cigarette in his hand, but did not smoke it. I tried forcibly to fight the guilt that was growing within me.

"Holmes, once we swore that if the reward was not worth the risk in our relationship, we would tell the other."

"Yes, I do recall. I was…there." He flashed me the infamous lightning-fast grin before returning to the revelry of his poison. For a second, I thought he may break completely down. His eyes squeezed shut and both hands clenched into fists which he drove into his gut. Instinctively, I shot out to grasp his knee. It shuddered beneath my hand. But instead of a shocking breakdown, his eyes re-opened into two composed grey lights and he straightened his body erect. "I appreciate your candour, Watson. I am sure it will be for the best for you. So now we come to the finale of the crescendo. What will you do? Where will you go? Certainly you will stay in London, I should think. Will you begin again at what you were born to be, a doctor? I hear that the market for such things in not what it once was."

But I had not even begun to ponder such matters as what would happen to me beyond this evening. The future was a heavy fog such as our city was infamous for. If I could see clearly to the end of this night with steady nerves it would be far more than I would expect for myself. "You ask me questions I cannot answer. Or truly even care about, truth be told. I shall continue to assist you in your cases if you so like me to, but as for all else, I am in a muddle."

"They are all matters you must decide soon."

"Yes, well, _soon _is not _now. _I care only about this at the moment. About you and I. If you worry about Josh, I assure you that you will still have complete access to him until he is old enough to be sent to school."

"I am not worried about the boy! Only for…never mind."

"I did not want it to end this way, Holmes. Not with indifference and dispassion. Truly, I did not."

He snorted and rose from his chair to walk to the window overlooking Baker Street. The only light remaining was from a gradually smouldering gas jet, but I am sure that, had I been able to see his face it would have looked aged for the first time ever in our acquaintance. He rested his hand on the oak desk that held so much of what defined his career-my army revolver, an infamous photograph, old jack-knifed correspondence, and of course, a certain poison-filled syringe. He caressed the wood softly, as if his hand were dancing a solitary dance with the grains. When it came to rest on the keyhole, I knew what was in his mind.

"Well, despite what you may have wanted, doctor, I will not fall to my knees in a fit of passion to beg you to stay. It is not in me to do so. After all, we are not _women_. We will end this…as gentlemen should. With dignity."

"Holmes"- I began, but was silenced by his hand.

"Good-night," said he.

I sighed deeply. What could I do? I could not hold him down for the rest of his life to prevent him from being a fool. To prevent him from destroying his mind and body with that damned drug. All I could do was trust that he would not kill himself with it. "If that's the way you want it, then." I stood and headed to the door, hating the fact that after all, it was ending like this. Sterile. Detached.

"Watson, wait."

I froze on command. As I watched him come to me, it felt as though I was outside of my body. Observing the scene, but not participating in it. I watched therefore, as the man I had once described as a machine grabbed me with his long arms and kissed me so hard it was nearly painful. How can I describe that moment? How can I draw what went through my mind? I can say that it lasted only a few seconds in real time, but to this day I still replay it. In a way, it has not ended. It was like the moment two years previous, when he unexpectedly embraced me in my study. The shock of it, the bizarre atypical behaviour of him. The difference being, however, that time I thought little of it, and this time I thought everything of it.

Far from refusing, I snatched him up and returned the intimacy whole-heartedly. The soft silk of his waist coat was unyielding to my fingers, and his groin pressed against me throbbed. I could almost smell the heat we created.

But-as suddenly as he had begun-he stopped. Pulling away from me, he shook his head. I was left nearly panting and feeling only hard and guilty. "What…why did…"

"Go to bed, Watson," he ordered in a masterly voice.

"But"- I began, but he only shook his head again, returning to the locked desk. Something final had occurred, something he had to prove to himself. I felt the space that now existed between us. I swelled in anger, but how could I say anything after what I had done. There was nothing else I could do nor say. I turned and left him only to hear,

"Watson?"

I stopped but this time did not turn. "Good-night, sweet prince."

The reference I felt immediately, of course, but thought little of it for it was in his nature to borrow the words of other men when he thought it too emotional to create his own. My nature, my predicament, my very life was of a double-edged sword then. I stood in the threshold between the sitting room and stairwell-between two places that offered me reward and risk-indeed each offered Heaven and Hell. How could I, once a man of conventional visions and unmolested objectives about life, have arrived at this juncture? Was it some flaw of my nature, some weakness of mind that lain dormant for so many years, only to be arisen by this singular man with whom I had the most unusual attachment and fascination? I was not in an objective enough position to say. But how could I deny what I felt so keenly? How could I play it all off to some defect of my person and not something more? It all seemed so completely illogical!

Holmes had taken the small silver key from his waist coat pocket. With all the melodrama of any skilled actor, he held it high before him, as with Romeo and the poison, before placing it in the lock. I am sure no one who hears me narrate this will be fooled-he knew all too well I remained watching him. Tempting me, in every way possible: physically, as I did desire him, emotionally, as I did love him and medically, as I was drawn to care for him.

My decision was made. The beast within clasped my soul and attempted to drag me back to him.

But before I could move even a single muscle, I felt a cold chill freeze me in my place. Ask any military man with any amount of battle experience and he will tell you that it leaves a lasting scar. In many cases, as with myself, it was a heightened awareness of place. Not so much in the trifles that so intrigued Sherlock Holmes, but in a sense of foreboding that came upon me whenever I was being watched. And at that moment, I _was _being watched.

I spun round with feelings of cool dread. For all my time spent amongst death and fear in war, it was nothing more than I felt toward a now different enemy. This one, clad in slippers and a nightshirt, sat on the middle-step in the dark like a white spectre haunting me. He stared directly into me, with an expression of half-awake, half-asleep- a rather stupid expression I was unused to seeing in the boy. His mouth hung sheepishly open, and I knew my son had seen.

He had seen our embrace. Our kiss…good God, what had I done?

The boy moved ever so slightly to reach for the banister. He hugged it to pull himself to his feet. His expression did not change.

As for myself, I could have nearly been sick. My body betrayed me in a fit of rage, and I charged toward him. "Leave!" I shouted. "For God's sake, leave!"

For a second only, he froze, still clutching the banister with a look of fear. "Papa…"

"Get out, boy! Out of my sight! Now!"

He found his feet, and stumbled up the stairs just in front of me. My fury and grief was completely taken over now. "Now! Now!" I chased him until he was back in the attic, where I locked the door behind him. There I stood, with him on one side and myself on the other, listening as he bawled in fear. I fell hard against the wood, fighting a sob myself. What had I done? It was all over now. I had lost. Lost everything. Holmes and I could never be the same again. And my son…how could I even look at him after this?

I had lost everything.

1 College, where a boy goes before University, generally lasts from ages 13-18, but of course Holmes would have finished before that.

2 A weeded garden was a symbol of normalcy and harmony.


	29. Chapter 29

_The next in my never ending saga. This and next chapter were originally one. But it was very long so I broke it up. Next chapter to follow shortly, within a week. Reviews make me write faster, too : )_

I didn't (or perhaps couldn't is the proper word) speak to either Holmes or my son the next day, except one brief word or two over our morning meal. It seemed a normal morning with the three of us at the breakfast table-John Sherlock and I actually eating the porridge and Holmes staring at it as if it were poisoned with crossed arms and a scowl. But of course, that morning was anything but normal. From the red and bleary-eyed expressions of the two, I could be reasonably sure that they had spent the night as sleepless as I. It was the last meal the three of us would have together for a very long time, and it was done in silence. Every time a glass or a plate clanked and tinged it sounded monstrously loud.

At one point, I looked up from my plate to find the both of my party staring at me. "Your breakfast must be very enjoyable, doctor."

Ignoring him, I rudely reached for coffee pot. I would not deal with his pawky humour to-day.

"Will you be leaving soon?" Holmes continued.

"Yes. I plan to take a single room at my club for the time being." Josh's spoon froze mid-bite, but I continued to speak to Holmes rather than him. "The boy will stay here under Mrs. Hudson's care. Until I find suitable quarters, that is."

"You're leaving?" Asked Josh with wide, incredulous eyes.

"Yes."

"But why?"

I threw my napkin down and mumbled my pardons. I could not be here right now. How could I be forced to relive last night? He knew. He had seen. _He _was the principle reason I was leaving. As I was crossing the threshold to head to my room and dress, I heard Holmes say to Josh:

"Do not worry, my dear boy. It will all be for the best in the end."

I froze in an instant to hear. "I don't understand, Uncle. I know Papa was angry, but"-

"Yes, he was. And is. But the problem is that he thinks much of you. _Too _much, in fact, of your abilities. I can hardly blame him. Much of it is my own fault. But even if I were to tell him, he would not believe me. He would find other excuses. And so I must let him do what he thinks is best."

"Huh?"

I heard him pat the boy's hand. "You must trust me, lad. I will not allow either of you to be led astray."

Grinding my teeth, I continued my journey upstairs. I chose to believe that what had just been said was all for my benefit. It would not be above Holmes to do so. Oh, what fools we mortals are!

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I left the very next day, the last day of October, which turned into a bitterly nasty day at that. I had packed only the immediate necessities and left with only a carpet-bag, a portmanteau and my medical bag, which usually accompanied me. The dent it made in my room was barely perceptible and when all was in its place in my new single room at the Reform Club1 in Pall Mall, it looked a pious tomb indeed. There was only a small bed, very hard to the touch that I knew instantly would cause my old wounds to act up, a cupboard for clothes, a nightstand with a single drawer for a Bible and a fireplace. I immediately missed the well-worn comfort of my room in Baker Street.

With a forceful shake of my head, I remonstrated myself. _This is the life you have chosen. _I pulled the last item from the carpet bag and stared at it. It was a recently acquired possession: a photograph of Sherlock and John Sherlock.

It had been taken the previous summer and a gift to me of my last birthday. It was truly a wonderful photograph. Holmes sat sideways on a cushioned vanity bench as Josh stood next to him with one small hand on the man's shoulder and the other grasping his stuffed dog. They were both dressed immaculately in a sailor suit and hat for the boy and a silk evening suit and cravat for the man. His emerald tie-pin2, never worn to my knowledge, glistened in the camera flash. Both wore expressions of superiority. And beauty. Their pale eyes seemed to bare into my soul. If I had been a more superstitious man, I would have sworn that Holmes, with his shining eyes and slightly up-turned mouth, was speaking to me. I could not bear whatever it was he was trying to say.

But what to do with it? Should I allow it to remain out and risk possible scrutiny? Would it seem odd to anyone to have a cabaret of one's son…looking so intimate with another man. I was uncertain. No one with the photograph alone could possibly guess that there were not innocent motives behind it. But I knew this much. I could not stand to not be able to see Holmes everyday, if only frozen in one second of time. I wiped the glass with my sleeve, and set it carefully on the mantel of the small, blackened fireplace. They stared at me from across the room, making my heart turn to lead. It would always remind me of what I had done-what I had given up.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

In respect to my club, it was a place that I had nearly deserted for some two years now, as my public life was defined far more as Holmes' companion and assistant and not a typical middle-class gentleman who chose to be about others of his class. This was something I would have to learn to live with, as well as change.

I thought my very heart would stop beating when the first person I saw was James Parks. I had not seen him in the better part of a year, and for whatever reason, he looked much changed. Older. Wiser. His full head of dark hair had started to grey slightly at the temples, which seemed strange to me as I had always regarded him as young. But in reality, he was well into his thirties by now, and the stress of a full-time medical man is not to be taken lightly.

As I walked into on of the dining rooms of the Reform Club that first night, I saw him standing near the fireplace with a brandy in one hand and a cigar in his other. He was talking to Joseph Blakely-of unfortunate memory-and another fellow who looked vaguely familiar. We saw each other at the same moment. At first, Parks seemed confused, as if he didn't recognise me. His eyebrows furrowed, and he continued his conversation with the other two gentlemen, watching me out of the corner of his eyes. As for myself, I was uncertain what to do. I did not wish to cause a scene if he was determined to ignore me, and I did not want to appear desperate for companionship, so I turned away, took a table at the opposite end of the room, and ordered some supper for myself. The food did not compare to Mrs. Hudson's meals in the least, but I ate anyway. I would have to stop comparing everything with life in Baker Street.

In the past, I had never been bothered by isolation, at least not for short periods of time. Do not mistake me for Holmes, though, for I did _appreciate _company, but I certainly did not mind being on my own. But for some reason that night I felt the most bitter loneliness. Other than Parks and Blakely, I knew no one in the room, and no one, other than the waiter who brought me food and drink, paid any mind to me. I wished desperately for some one to talk to. But there was no one. Motioning for my man, I ordered a second scotch. What a long life this was going to be. Yet what a horrid start I had on it so far. I could not deny that leaving Baker Street and Holmes was for the right, but what of Josh? He certainly had to be confused and I had not the words to explain anything to him. Less than one month previous, I had sat in the sitting room watching Holmes teach chess to my son. Two great brains, as the world would know. Two great hearts, as the world would maybe never know. They were so alike, those two. I saw Josh as the boy Holmes would have been had his parents treated him like a beloved child and not a horrid creature. Perhaps that was why I was so afraid of my loving Holmes, and he me. If Josh was so like his mentor, did that mean he too would grow up to be like this queer man? Much as I cared for him, I did not want my only son to be a man with black fits, who abused drugs, who buried himself so deep within his own conscience that it took years and years to pull himself out.

I did not want him loving men, either.

Studying the golden liquid in my cup, I saw a watery reflection of myself bathed in light. How much of what we are is determined by nature, and how much by nurture? Was Josh's future already pre-destined by his genetic make-up? By his personality and intellectual capabilities? And how much by the sort of life I was thrusting him into? How could I know? How could I know anything for certain?

"Watson."

I nearly jumped at the sound of my own name. So absorbed in my own thoughts and my alcohol had I been that I had forgotten all about Parks, and hadn't seen him slowly make his way over to my table. I looked up at him. He attempted a slight smile, but failed miserably. He fidgeted with his cigar uneasily. It seemed the longest time that he stood and I sat, both of us ignoring the other.

"You might sit," I at last said, finishing my drink. "Certainly do not simply stand there staring at me like a freak in a side-show."

He did, however slowly and reluctantly. His eyes looked anywhere but at mine. "I am…surprised to see you here. I had thought you had given up polite society."

"I am sure you did think so."

Again, silence. What had we, truly, to say to each other? We had said more than enough when he severed ties two years previous. Parks motioned for a refill of his brandy. When it arrived, he drank it down in a single draught. It had a brazen effect on his countenance, and he sat more erect in his chair. Narrowing his eyes, he asked, "Why _are_ you here?"

"Must I justify my actions to you, James?"

"Certainly not. I was merely curious."

"You are frequently more curious than does you good."

He raised his eyebrows. "So I've been told. In fact, Dr. Blakely-certainly you remember Blakely-has told me that on occasion. Blakely!" He called to the doctor, who still remained by the fireplace with the slightly familiar gentleman. He waved slightly and both came over. I cannot say I was exactly overjoyed to see him. He reminded me so of the death of my wife. "You gentlemen remember Dr. Watson," said Parks.

"Of course," Blakely said, smiling warmly and offering me his hand. Whatever rumours I was sure had been started, Joseph had seemed to ignore. He was a true gentleman. "How are you, dear fellow?"

"Well, thank you, Blakely." I lied. "Merely feeling a bit overwhelmed at the moment."

"Why, has it anything to do with an especially trying case of Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I certainly hope so! We could use some new cases in _The Strand_." The third man smiled brightly, and I suddenly remembered who he was. Davis, I believed his name to be. The fan of Holmes. I had forgotten that night at this very club were we same four had sat discussing the man.

"It has nothing to do with a case of Mr. Holmes. Rather, I do not see much of him anymore. I am endeavouring to get back into medicine. I also am looking for a reasonably priced set of rooms, if any of you gentlemen might be of assistance." I purposely looked at Parks as I said this, and noted the suspicious surprise in his face. His snifter paused just in front of his mouth, and his eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

"Really, Watson? You would leave _poor_ Mr. Holmes all alone?"

At one point in my life, I would have had an express desire to hit him right on his sarcastic mouth. But age had quelled my hot temper somewhat, and I maintained my dignity. "I think he shall manage quite fine, James."

"Even without you to take care of him?" Parks smiled knowingly at me.

Before I could reply, Davis laughed and said, "Really, Dr. Parks, I think you underestimate Sherlock Holmes. He is not a man that forms attachments or friendships. They are-how do you phrase it, Dr. Watson?-oh, yes, 'disruptive to the senses.' Can you imagine that, gentlemen? A man so devoted to his profession that he will not allow even emotions to disrupt his advancement of his science!"

"Perhaps he is the future," said I, specifically to Parks. "The kind of man who will not allow his own _biases_ to influence his judgement." James looked away and did not respond.

Blakely, Davis and I talked cordially for some time, making our way through several fine cigars and a few more drinks. We discussed articles on Rontgen, the German and Pupin, the American and what was being done with this new theory of 'x-rays' that we had all read in the medical journals while Davis continually tried to turn the conversation back to Holmes. It actually grew from annoying to quite humorous after awhile-the man must have memorised every story I had punished! _Did you know that Sherlock Holmes actually does not know that the Earth revolves around the sun? _I nearly burst into laughter when he said that. Parks and Blakely glanced at each in amazement. "Surely that cannot be true?" Blakely asked.

"A…fictional liberty, I assure you," said I. "Although there was one time, shortly after we met, that I did rather think something of the sort."3

"Could we please not talk about Sherlock Holmes?" Parks asked, glaring at me. The subject was turned back to current affairs for another hour or so until Blakely announced that it was time for him to leave.

"I'm afraid if I am too late my Margaret worries." He smiled and shook each of us by the hand. "Forty years and she will still not trust me to find my way home each night."

Forty years. It seemed an infeasible amount of time to me. Apparently, it was as much to Davis, for he added, "I've been married only five. I had hoped with time my wife might change her hen-picking ways."

Blakely laughed. "You _are_ very young, aren't you, my dear Sanford?" Davis' colour changed slightly. "But perhaps you have the right idea, Watson. The bachelor's life is a merry one. Or so I am told, at least. I cannot say I remember. I was all of three and twenty when I married."

What was I supposed to say to that? I tried not to look at Parks. "When you have been widowed, it is not so easy, Blakely." _Neither is it when you realise the one you love is a man._

After Blakely and Davis left, I was alone with Parks. And be damned if I was not going to have the last word. "I know we have been over all of this before, James. You certainly have the right to your own opinions. About Sherlock Holmes. And about myself. But if you ever say-no, even _insinuate_ that either he or I is not completely a man again, I will sue you for slander!" Slamming my fist on the table, I stormed out ignoring the side-ways glances of the various other occupants. When I made it back to my room, I was furious. I spent the better part of the night pacing the length of the chamber, muttering to myself. I wanted more scotch. I wanted to forget. The sun was already up when at last I collapsed into bed. The linen felt strangely foreign and cold against my skin. And empty. I stayed there the better part of two days.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

When at last I did leave, I was told by the front desk that I had a note waiting. It was printed on club stationary. I recognised the hand-writing.

_John- _(it read)

_I do not write to say that I understand and accept everything I know of you to be true, for that would be a lie. But I do write to say that I have behaved badly, and I regret that. You have not warranted the behaviour I have shown you, so for that I offer you my apologies. As a way of showing that I am really am sorry, I am enclosing the card of a recent acquaintance. He is young, and has just opened up a practise, and needs an experienced hand who can bring in clients and expand it. Do what you will with this chance I offer you. If you choose to ignore it, I will understand. But I do offer you _

_My best wishes,_

_James Parks _

I held the card in my hand without looking at it. My first instinct was to rip it up. I needed no favours from that man. But I could not go through with it. I had to do whatever it took to get my new life off of the ground. My hand found its way into my waistcoat pocket and I dropped the card.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I spent a week staring at the gold-coloured lettering on the card before I made up my mind to go. I walked slowly to Paddington street. I avoided Baker Street completely, despite their close proximity. It was all of five or six blocks from my old digs.

His name was Dr. Linwood Askew, and he was very young, or so it seemed to me at the time. Probably he was no younger than I when I obtained my medical degree. He was short of stature, lean and nervous looking, with engorged eyes of brown that darted about the room constantly. He wore a slight moustache, a queer-looking bit of facial hair that gave the appearance of a young man trying to look older. His entire face was flushed pink.

He knew me by name-Parks had apparently informed him of my possible coming-and he seemed youthfully exuberant as he met me in his consulting room.

"Why, _the _Dr. Watson, is it not? My land…" He smiled nervously as he offered me his hand.

"My pleasure, sir."

"No, no. I insist it is mine." I could not help but notice he had a terse, jumpy sort of rapid smile that instantly through me into a mind-set of one I did not want to think on. "I have read all of your _Strand _cases. How exciting a life you must lead! With…with Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He must be quite a fellow." He fluttered about like a canary in a cage.

"Yes, he is," I felt compelled to answer. "Completely…unique. May I ask if we might turn our attention to your practice? James Parks told me that you were in earnest to find another to share it with."

"Oh! Oh, of course."

We spent the better part of that afternoon discussing what exactly Dr. Askew required of a partner in his newly created business, and what exactly I hoped to bring to the arrangement. I got the distinct impression that he was more impressed with my knowledge of Holmes' cases than my medical knowledge.

"And…and the _Dancing Men…_how he broke that impossible code! Why, any man who can do that should be studying linguistics at Oxbridge! Not…not roaming about London memorising types of mud."

"Yes, I suppose he should. But really, sir-if I am to work here, I must insist that we do not talk about Mr. Holmes. It is a part of my life that I am moving away from. It would not do for you to constantly remind me of it."

He seemed shocked and his faced went from pink to deep red. "My…my apologies, Dr. Watson. Really, I didn't realise that you were so…discontent over Mr. Holmes and his cases. I promise I will never bring him up again." He flashed me another of his tense grins, but his face remained flushed.

Discontent. Yes, that was an appropriate word. I could not think of one better to describe how I felt.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Several weeks later, I found a small flat on Wimpole Street. I was quoted a fair price. The landlord was a fan of Mr. Holmes. He was pleased to hear that he was still alive. "Why do you not write anymore about him?" He asked.

"When can my son and I move in?" I ignored his question.

He gave a non-committal shrug. "Immediately, if you wish. But why would anyone want to give up such an exciting life with Sherlock Holmes? If I were you, I would be writing more of your adventures together!"

I smiled politely, but did not answer. At the time I could not see it, and Josh never remarked about it, but years later I would realise that this flat was designed exactly as 221B Baker Street was.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

And now to the two I had left behind.

It is hard to say exactly what occurred in those first weeks after I departed Baker Street. I had left Josh in the care of Mrs. Hudson, but that of course meant he was also in the care of Sherlock Holmes, and I've really no idea what they may have said, done or thought at first. I can imagine; I can conjecture, but I cannot know for sure. There is one thing I can say with certain accuracy: they were both much changed.

The pressures of my return to civilisation, not to mention my return to a steady career further isolated me from my child. I can admit that I thought little of it at the time, both because I was so entirely busy proving myself to my new partner in medicine, and partly because I still had no idea what I should say to Josh. I think I probably told myself the Holmes had already taken care of it, had explained it to his level of understanding, and that there was no need to ever mention it again. Why I thought this, I cannot say. Perhaps I thought Holmes more changed than he really was.

I thought he might be pleased, for he had his own bedroom now, quite a bit more spacious than a cramped attic, and I even devoted half of my new sitting room to his private study with a fine new desk, books and a comfortable lounge chair. He seemed singularly unimpressed. Until I said to him,

"You know you can go back to Baker Street anytime you wish."

He eyed me suspiciously. "Every day?"

"If you so desire. Holmes shall continue to tutor you. At least until you are old enough for prep."

He was sitting on his bed in his new room as we talked. It was a glorious room, if I do say so myself. Everything that I would have loved as a boy his age. Books of every shape and size. A gigantic mahogany rocking horse, far better than the one he'd owned at three. A new set of toy soldiers, tin rather than wood with enemy French soldiers to fight. There was a fantastic Noah's Ark set, several stuffed animals and brightly coloured pictures of tigers, elephants and monkeys hanging on the walls. There was a draughts set, a Bilbo catcher, a spinning top, and a real naval whistle. But Josh's fingers went silently to the chess set Holmes had given him, idly fingering the black knight. He had barely given a single thought to anything else. "I suppose that will not be so bad, then."

"I should think not! You have everything a child could possibly want."

He nodded without looking at me. I knew what he wanted to ask. _What happened, Papa? Why are we here? Are you angry with me? Are you angry with Uncle? _But he did not. Children, it seems to me, as curious as they are, will often remain silent and oblivious at their own risk rather than risk angering or saddening their parent.4

Many times over the next few months, I thought to speak to him. Yet I saw him very infrequently. I was away at my new practise from sun-up until supper five and sometimes six days a week. I had hired a charwoman and cook, promising four pounds extra in her annual salary for the care of my son, which was truly a bargain indeed. For her, that is. He was old enough to wake, wash and dress himself in the morning. She need only give him his breakfast and see him off to Baker Street most mornings. He would stay there all day, sometimes returning for supper, other times sleeping on the settee in our old sitting room. And by the time he had turned six, he begged me to forgo her chaperoning him at all, claiming he could easily make the four block journey alone. I agreed, if only to see a smile on his face. There were so few in those days.

But somehow a black shroud of silence had been laid in our new quarters. I would ask him on the nights we managed to share a supper together, how his studies were advancing, what he had done that day, what he was reading and what he was writing. He would answer in short sentences, sometime one word. One night I asked him how Holmes was getting along.

"Perhaps you would know if we were still living there." He looked at me angrily over his bowl of soup. His eyes were like blue, hardened steel. He was not even six years old. I was shocked. Too shocked to punish him much beyond sending him to bed without supper. I did not ask of Holmes well-being again for a long time.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

In fact, it was March of '97-nearly five months after I left-before I was to see Holmes. And it happened only because of the most distressing of circumstances.

March marks the beginning of spring, and for the medical man, it is a welcome time indeed. The end of winter, the beginning of warmer temperatures, and the lessoning of influenza, tuberculosis, pneumonia and bronchitis outbreaks. I had been with Dr. Askew now four months, and was very happy with my new situation. I found my partner to be convivial, generous and very eager to both learn and please. Our practise was not large, and there were few clients of means as of yet, but we were growing nicely and Linwood (as he insisted on being called) was nervously optimistic about our profits. My professional life had improved greatly. My personal life remained stagnant.

One day near the end of the month, I was sitting in my consultation room filing some records. It had been a slow week, thankfully, and I was enjoying the gradual warmth seeping in through my window. I felt happy. At least, I repeatedly told myself I should be.

I heard footfalls running fast down the hall. "Wait a second there!" Came Askew's voice. My door was thrown wide open.

"Papa! He's very sick! You must come!"

Josh was in a complete panic such as I had never seen before. His face was red from running, long dirty stains from tears dripping down his cheeks and his knees shaking slightly even as he fidgeted hanging onto the end of my desk. I rose to take his hand.

"Alright now, calm yourself. What has happened?"

Josh took a shaky breath. He was a logical child, even under undo stress, and was able to tell me exactly what happened. "We were doing maths problems. Uncle was going over a problem at the chalkboard and I was at the desk copying. He was sweating and…and going like this"-he made a noise like clearing ones throat-"but he continued on, and suddenly, I saw his eyes roll back in his head and he fell on to the floor. I made sure he was still breathing. He looked at me, but did not say anything. I ran straight here without stopping."

I immediately pulled the boy along with me. I was not up to running six blocks, so I hired the first cab we came across, and we were at the door of 221B within ten minutes. It was only when I arrived that I realised I had run out of without even a word to Dr. Askew. I ran the seventeen stairs to the sitting room. My only thought was of Holmes.

Mrs. Hudson was with him, but he was still unconscious, and she had not the strength to move him. A weary look of concern was across her face that lightened noticeably when she saw me. "Thank the Lord, Dr. Watson," she said. "I don't know what happened. I heard a thud, and then your son was running like the Devil was after him out of the house." The two saw each other and immediately Josh ran to her and threw his arms around the old lady. "My darling boy…." She mumbled, stroking his wet cheek.

I dragged Holmes over to the settee and removed his jacket and collar ends. I could not help but notice how light he felt in my arms. He had always been thin, but he felt little more than skin and bone. Without me, there was no one to make sure he ate regularly. I felt his pulse: erratic. His breathing: shallow. His pupils: dilated. His skin: flushed and moist. His musculature…I felt his left arm. Something was wrong. Even through his sleeve I could feel it. Skin rough and uneven. Rolling up the sleeve I directly saw the problem. It was covered with puncture marks. More than I had ever seen. Some seemed to be on top of old ones when space did not allow. "God…" I heard myself mumble. I wanted to cry, truth be told. First to weep, and then to beat this fool senseless.

Clearing the shake out of my voice, I asked that Mrs. Hudson bring me a small amount of brandy. Josh stood where he was, watching me and snivelling silently. "What's wrong with him?" He asked.

How could I tell him? "I…I'm not sure. It is nothing serious, though, I am fairly certain. Probably nothing more than a simple matter of over-work and under-nourishment. Even the best of us can cause a chink in our iron constitution if we do not allow ourselves rest and relaxation. Had he mentioned any cases to you of late?"

Josh shook his head slowly. "He doesn't talk much of his cases. He said I should concentrate on…other things."

Mrs. Hudson arrived and I forced a little of the liquid into his throat. His eyes, piercing and commanding even in this state, fluttered and rolled about in his head, as I helped him set up a little. He groaned and pushed my hand away when I tried to force more brandy in him. His hand remained clasped to my wrist, and our eyes met. "Well," I heard him whisper. "They say in this sleep of death, what dreams may come5…and it appears sometimes they do come true."

"What on Earth have you done to yourself?" I asked, ignoring the riddle.

"We have fallen on dark times, Watson." He smiled briefly.

"Yes, I should say we have. How could you do this to yourself?" I was whispering to him to spare Mrs. Hudson and the boy although I felt a powerful need to shout. His face was in my hands and there was a strange sick feeling within my stomach. A single thought repeated itself in my head: _It's your entire fault…It's your entire fault…It's your entire fault._

Almost as if he could read my mind (and it would not surprise me in the least if he could), my wrist was released and he pulled away from me, sitting all the way up and buttoning his collar. "I appreciate the terrified looks on all of your faces for my welfare, but I can sure you that I am fine. You needn't look so scared."

"The Hell we don't!" I swore, despite the mixed company. "You are a sick man, Holmes, and despite the anticipated objections I am sure you will raise, I am calling in a specialist."

His expression changed immediately from calm and nearly amused to forbidding. "You are hardly in a position to force your will on me, doctor." His body flinched slightly as if someone had raised a fist to him. "You have relinquished that right."

I felt myself pull away and stand before him. With a few words and a wave of the hand, I asked our spectators to kindly leave the room. Mrs. Hudson said something about tea and broth, and Josh protested, but we were at last left alone. There were heavy feelings of frustration in the air. He watched me with his eyes as I paced before him. He normally hated for me to do so, despite the fact that he frequently thought on his feet. He said nothing now, simply watched me.

"I shall call Dr. Moore Agar of Harley Street to come 'round as soon as possible. He is a foremost specialist in nervous disorders"-

"I do not have a _nervous_ _disorder_."

But I was relentless in the matter. Moore Agar was called for, and when he arrived the next day, he took but one look at my friend and told me in confidentiality that he was lucky to still be of this Earth. I did not mention the cocaine. I am fairly certain I did not have too. "He must have total rest and relaxation," said Agar. "For two weeks, if not longer. Nothing must tax his mind if he wishes to keep it."

Holmes, for his part, did not put up such a fight as I might have suspected. There were a few phrases muttered about Harley Street specialists, but he agreed. He seemed, to me, only relieved I was there. There were constant looks and secret smiles to himself. There were also chest pains and extreme nausea. He said he would go to Cornwall, if I would come with. I at first thought to bring Josh along, as the idea of the two of us alone was not the brightest I fathomed, but he would not hear of it. It was to be he and I, or he was staying right here in London. Sickness or no sickness. Death or no death.

"Why on Earth would you want to go to Cornwall? After everything that has happened there"-

"If you are forcing me to take a holiday, doctor, than I will go to Cornwall, or no where at all. It's your decision."

He never did tell me why he was so admit about Cornwall. I have my conjectures. There was the sea and the moors, a desolate grey area of Neolithic burial grounds and the death of waves over rocks that appealed to his scientific mind and dislike of humanity. We would be nearly isolated, only the two of us. And of course, Cornwall has the distinction of being the last place we were together and happy, however momentary and peculiar this happiness was. I am sure you, my reader, know where I am going with this, for I have discussed the particulars of what was to come in the case that came to be known first as "The Cornish Horror" and then later as "The Devil's Foot." I immediately secured a small cottage for the two of us in Poldhu Bay near the small hamlet of Tredannick Wollas.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

1 One of the most popular clubs in the 19th century, its members included Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Some speculate (those that play the game, of course) that Watson may have been a member of this club. Others doubt it because of its proximity to the Diogenes Club, which they say surely Watson would have commented on.

2 The one given to him by Queen Victoria, of course.

3 See "A Study in Scarlet." Doyle (or Watson) must have realised how difficult it would be to make Holmes only know things that were relevant to his profession, because things he earlier claimed to be ignorant of, he made remarks of later. No man as smart as Holmes could have been unaware of the fact that the Earth revolves around the sun, of course.

4 Whether this is the case anymore remains to be seen :)

5 From Hamlet, (III,iii)


	30. Chapter 30

I think of the irony of my having written the tale entitled "The Adventure of the Devil's Foot" in 1910, just four short years before my reunion with Holmes, and all of the good that occurred after. But I am getting ahead of myself. I was thinking that if I had written the story four years later, I may have written more of the personal side of the holiday in Cornwall. Perhaps not. But there certainly were aspects to the case that for discretionary purposes had to be changed, and for the public have never been made available until now. Some of these concern the case itself, which you will clearly see, and others concern what happened to Holmes while we were at Cornwall.

The readers of my stories will note that there are some small discrepancies that occur occasionally in my published works. Some of these are accidental, of course, the fault being my own or that of my editor. Others were purposively written, in an attempt to shield certain people from scrutiny- important clients whose reputations must be maintained. And Sherlock Holmes and myself, of course. So for the first time as I forward through the darkest period of my life, in search of light, I will illuminate a case of Holmes' completely, and with no concern for reputation.

Our white-washed house in one of the furthest extremities of Poldhu Bay was far enough away from Holmes' childhood manor on Bodmin Mor that I tried to convince myself we were no where near it. However, the fear and isolation of the areas were too similar to forget. This house was a white beacon on top of a meagre grass highland and overlooked the thrilling area of Mount's Bay-where the Channel and Atlantic fought and crashed into each other for dominance. The scream of gulls and roar of waves seemed to make the daily battle a never ending casualty-filled war. Holmes would no doubt say I was being overly-dramatic, but this was my initial reaction. I could imagine much more suitable places for a holiday.

But we had no sooner unpacked our bags than Holmes left me in a quiet house to explore the lonely moors and the ruins of some vanished race. All he had talked about on the train was devoting himself for a week or two to the study of the ancient Cornish language, which he ascribed derived from the Phoenician traders of tin, a theory that had been around for many years and a subject that had fascinated the man since his childhood in this area. No sooner had we arrived at our little cottage, than Holmes did dump his belongings in the first of the two bed chambers, taking a book and a lantern, and leaving me for a solitary meditation upon the great stone menhirs1 that covered the area. He gave no indication of when he may return.

I thought to leave him alone, at least for that first day, but as the hour became late and all I could hear were the waves crashing outside our door, I became worried. His health was of my utmost concern. And there was the unhappy thought that had played in my mind since finding him unconscious one week previous. Was he purposely trying to kill himself? Was that why he wanted to come to this barren place, near to where his pain had begun? It was a thought I could not put out of my mind.

After a search of an hour, I found him upon one of the very remains he said he would be, book in hand, lantern lit, looking perfectly content and unaware (or unconcerned) about my worry. As usual, he took but one look upon the heavy relief that was my face, and read my very mind. It was a skill I was used to at that point.

"What is the matter, doctor?" He asked as I sat next to him. "Were you afraid you would find my smashed and broken body scattered among the rocks below?"

"What a horrid thing to say!" Of course, that was exactly what I had feared I would find.

"Yet you thought it. Now, do not deny it! I can certainly see the fear in your eyes."

I have no doubt he could. He was looking directly at me, the way he had done for our entire friendship. First, privately, thinking I was not aware and later…well, also privately. But in a different private setting. "Well, may I ask if that fear is justified?"

"Only one who has no control over his emotions would resort to such an escape as suicide. It is not a logical alternative to ones problems."

"Of course it is not! It is stupid and cowardly!"

"And do you think me to be stupid or cowardly?"

"Certainly not. But"-

"Then why would you assume I would act as such?" He curled his long arms around his legs, pulling into himself and reminding me of the boy I thought most like him. He was being atypically soft-spoken. "It is not the first time you have thought as much of me."

"You wanted me to think so, when you left that poem-and wrote those things in Latin. You knew what I would think. And you knew I would rush to Meringin to find you, did you not?"

He did not answer. Slowly, he lowered his head to his knees, and with a piercing gaze sat very near to me starring out at the sea. "Did you know that 'Poldhu' is 'black pool' in the Cornish language? I always that of Cornwall as being…so very black. Dark."

It had begun to rain, slowly at first and then in buckets as it often does in March, and as it often also does whenever Holmes and I were out of doors and talking about things neither of us wanted to. Our menhir was inadequate in protecting us from it, and the spray hit us directly in the face. "I think we should head back to the house." I said.

"You go ahead. I shall be along shortly."

"You'd better come now. You know your health is delicate."

He laughed warmly and took my arm, both of our woollen overcoats already being drenched with rain. "Well, if my health is so _delicate _it is lucky I know of a qualified doctor who is staying very near to me."

The next morning, I woke to find my companion already out of bed and departed. There was coffee made- lukewarm and extremely strong -and the ashtray was filled to the brim with cigarette butts and pipe plugs. There was no sign of any food in the house having been touched. I immediately went into Holmes' bedroom, and found it already a disaster. Clothing lay in shambles, books askew and scattered about the floor. But I was interested only in the morocco case I knew had come along in his luggage. The syringe, the length of rubber cord, the bottle. I searched the bed, the wardrobe, the chest and desk. Nothing. With a heavy sigh, I shut the door.

Without bothering to look for him, I walked slowly across the moor toward the village. I could just make out the ancient moss-grown church surrounded by the little cottages of a few hundred parishioners.

There thankfully was a post-office in Tredannick Wollas, and a telegram was dispatched assuring Mrs. Hudson of our safe arrival. I had been unable to estimate how long we might remain. Judging from Holmes, it could be a very long holiday indeed.

As I journeyed past the church and neighbouring vicarage, studying them unobtrusively, I was suddenly called upon by a rather young, clean-shaven fellow whom I had somehow missed walking by.

"Halloa!" He called, waving wildly.

Before I could give my regards back, he was dashing to meet up with me. I saw at once that this was the vicar of the parish, despite his apparent youth2. He had a bright, welcoming visage and a portly little body and immediately grasped my hand. "It is indeed a pleasure to see you, Mr. Holmes. To think that our humble village should be graced with the presence of such a famous man!"

He words seemed so completely sincere that I was surprised and smiled warmly at him before correcting the error. "I am very sorry to disappoint you, vicar, but I am afraid that I am Dr. John Watson. Mr. Holmes is my friend and partner."

_Or rather was…_

"Oh! Yes, of course you are! My apologies."

I was surprised that he would have heard of our arrival so quickly, given that we had arrived only yesterday, but he chuckled at this and informed me that he had known since the previous day. No doubt the estate agent that had leased us the cottage had not been able to resist the name of his renter. "I hope that your interest in Mr. Holmes does not extend to needing his professional services, sir. For I must tell you that he is here for a lengthy and complete rest."

"No, no. I am thankful to the Lord that we are a retired community for the most part, quiet and undisturbed. We have little need for a detective here in Tredannick Wollas."

We talked at length for some ten minutes in the street, although Mr. Roundhay (for that was his name) invited me into the vicarage for tea. I learned of his knowledge of Holmes, and his interest in archaeology. I avoided as delicately as I could the details of my own life, but the young vicar was far more interested in Holmes than I to begin with. He closed the conversation by saying:

"On this Sunday you and your friend must come to the vicarage to sup with my tenant and I. And, of course, I invite you both to worship with us before hand."

"Well, I cannot speak for Mr. Holmes, of course, but I thank you for the invitation and accept."

The time was thus agreed upon and we departed with our good-byes. I knew that there was no way Sherlock Holmes would ever agree to attend chapel with me, but I was sure a pleasant supper would not be out of the question. As I walked back to the cottage, enjoying the warmth of the day, I thought of Mr. Roundhay and speculated as to the identity of his tenant.

Holmes finally returned an hour after I had supped, close to eight o'clock. He came barging in wrapped in two layers of coats, his threadbare blue blanket that always adorned his bed at home, and two scarves. Despite the amiable weather and his bizarre wardrobe, however, it was the fact that he immediately fell upon the table and began shovelling bread, fried fish and boiled potatoes into his mouth that most puzzled me. He appeared not to care that the leftovers were cold or that he was using his fingers.

I had never seen him eat so ravenously before.

"Are you quite alright, Holmes?" I asked.

"Is there any coffee?"

That was his way of answering, I supposed. "No…would you like me to make you some?"

"Thank you." He sat and at last bothered to remove his hat and scarves.

I watched him from our little kitchen as I put a pot on to boil. He had grown paler, somehow, in one day and more nervous and twitchy as his foot tapped the floor while he reached for an apple from the sideboard bowl. Holmes being a very irregular eater at best, I knew something had to be wrong. The only problem was finding out what it was.

When the coffee was prepared to what I knew to be his liking, thick and excessively strong, I brought him in a steaming cup. He snatched it from my very hand and gulped it down.

"Holmes! Really, now, you'll burn your"-

"More," he gasped, setting the cup down.

"My dear Holmes"-

"More! Please, Watson."

With a heavy sigh, I fetched a second and then a third cup. Only then did he appear satisfied. He groaned deeply and leaned back in his chair, immediately reaching into his coat for his cherrywood and tobacco pouch. I waited exasperatedly until it was lit and he was puffing before asking the obvious.

"What the deuce is the matter with you?"

He looked at me as if my question was unusual. "Not a thing, my dear. Why do you ask?"

"Why do I ask! Because you have never come in like a wild animal before, pale as a ghost, devouring any food before you and drinking coffee as if your very life depended on it. What has come over you, man?"

He gave a non-committal shrug. "I have not eaten all day. The moorish atmosphere and sea-air have ways of restoring one's appetite."

Of course, I was not a doctor for nothing, and I knew it to be more than a sudden possession of appetite. What I did not know enough about were the effects of his drug. I had always observed an opposite effect on my friend's hunger, if anything, when such occasions arose that he took his cocaine. Perhaps it was just as he said. I allowed him the benefit of the doubt, despite the quiet voice of the medical man in the back of my mind. Feeling a change of subject was called for, I said, "I have met the vicar of Tredannick Wollas. A very amiable fellow. Quite well-up on your history. He has invited us to dine with he and his tenant tomorrow."

"Huzzah."

"And to worship at his church beforehand."

"Ha!"

"Now, Holmes, I know you are averse the very idea of religion"-

"Watson, Watson…you quite disappoint me." He sighed as if his burden was too heavy to bear. "I am not at all adverse to religion. In fact, I find it as necessary a concept as philosophy and science. I have a spent a fair amount of time studying the various world religions in my younger years. Although to me, the Buddha Sakyamuni is no less fascinating or more correct than the Allah of Islam or the God of Christianity. What I _am_ averse to is the 'practise' of one's religion, and the inevitable superiority that a follower will form in his own mind about the assuredness of his own moral rightness and salvation. I will not have one man's ideas of God forced down my throat, claiming to be the only truth over another man's. In my mind, no one religion should be put on a pedestal above all others."

I listened attentively, and although I found it to be a perfectly rational argument, I could not help but say, "Not every religious person wants to force their beliefs down your throat. Not everyone is my sister. Or your mother."

He glared at me for that, as I knew he would. After his pipe was finished, and his pallor had returned to something close to normal, he rose and bid me a good-night.

"Enjoy your worshipping, dear boy."

"And what of the supper?" I called to him.

"Seven o'clock!" His door slammed hard enough to shake the cottage walls.

I smiled victoriously to myself for the first time in months. I slept well that night.

It was the same as the previous morning, I found when I rose. Holmes gone without trace, his room in disarray, no sign of the morocco case, and I left feeling strangely disturbed and uneasy. The only difference between yesterday and today, I found, was that clearly he had breakfasted before departing. The remains of several eggs, toast and a rasher were visible upon his plate, as well as lord knows how many cups of coffee. Even as a medical man, I could not explain what had taken hold of my companion's appetite. A few illnesses I knew of had a positive effect on the appetite, such as encephalitis or some brain injury, perhaps a parasite, but I could not see any applying to my friend. It had to be related to his drug-use.

With Holmes still preying heavily on my mind, I walked in a beautiful late-spring Cornish morning into Treddanick Wollas. It was hard to be angry with life on such a morning, and even harder to be angry with this man I cared about so deeply. Surely I need only have faith in him. I tried to block him out for a few hours and enjoy the service, although I needn't comment that my return to religion only exacerbated another issue I feared.

The church, like most in Cornwall, was plain to the eye and un-adorned, made of thick stone and strewn with graves in both front and back, as well as the garden the vicar had been working in. I was smiled and greeted upon by several locals, and I returned the pleasantries with a forced look of contentment. As a guest, I felt compelled to sit in the back. It was an opportune spot to observe the people, which I did as discreetly as possible. There were not many people of interest. Several elderly ladies, grey-haired and faced, mostly in black, one or two with a sleepy-eyed husband along. One young mother wrestled five young children into a pew, all apparently under the age of ten. They immediately began fidgeting, to which sound smacks to the back of their heads were administered. Another family, young by the standard, entered together. Two men and a lady, all apparently in their late thirties to early forties, I would reason.

Because both of the men helped the lady to her seat, and because all had very similar features, I was sure they must be siblings.

There was something compelling about the three that I could not name, so I observed their movements, however infrequent. They sat together left and front with the lady in the middle, and for a period of some minutes they did nothing but whisper to each other and turn towards anyone else that entered.

Only one did, and he arrived with the young vicar, Mr. Roundhay. He had a dark head of unruly curls, small close set eyes behind spectacles and a short, neatly-trimmed beard. He was of average height, sturdy and muscular with a tanned Cornish skin, but walked with a stooped back. He walked slowly down the aisle of the church until he came to my sibling trio, where he noticeably paused. It was in complete fascination that I watched all four turn to each other at the exact same second and stare intently. This stare lasted only a very long second or two, and then the man snapped his head forward and walked three rows past and sat right of them, four rows in front of me.

The organ began to play then, and we all rose, leaving me momentarily distracted from what I had just seen. Roundhay began his homily, and he was a very amiable speaker, not especially fiery, but calm and knowledgeable, and with a voice that drew one in.

"The subject of my sermon today is one that I think applies to all God's children in their lives, yet is a topic easily forgotten as we go about with our daily tasks. It is the subject of forgiveness. I would today preach to you our Lord's humanity, rather than his divinity. Turn, if you will, to Colossians 1:14, and read with me 'In whom we have redemption through his blood, even the forgiveness of sins…"

I concentrated on Roundhay as he spoke, mildly at first, but occasionally bursting with feeling when it was commanded, gesturing with his hands and fingers. He spoke as any decent vicar would, deciphering the literal meaning of the words and then giving the logical meaning, but also counteracting his sermon with the acts of forgiveness by the Lord: "For we received redemption from the Lord through his son, and we must not forget that. We can be forgiven for our sins if we only repent, but can we be forgiven from each other in the same way? Is that not our Christian duty to forgive each other, as was the way of Jesus Christ, and as we are from the Lord?"

Roundhay bid us to go in peace then, and the congregation rose on command and like cattle, herded toward the doors. I lost sight of the dark gentleman with the stoop, but in allowing an elderly couple to pass, I was caught directly behind the siblings, who had been the recipients of the fellow's hideous glance.

"D'you think our Mortimer was listening to Francis speak this morning?" The lady was saying to her brothers. I, being so near, could not help but overhear. "It did seem it might have all been for his benefit."

"Now, Brenda," one of the men replied. "We have agreed to forgive Morty. It certainly must be un-Christian to say such things."

The crowd thinned then, and the three all shook the hand of young Mr. Roundhay, pausing to say a word or two I could no longer hear, before they disappeared. Of course, all who are familiar with my published account of the Cornish horror will know the fate of this family. But, one must not get ahead of himself. And so I apologise for my brief digression.

I was one of the last out of the church, and it was my turn to offer my words of encouragement to the vicar. I told him that I had greatly appreciated his sermon, which was very near the truth, although I knew that it would be re-playing in my mind for days. Forgiveness was another of those topics of interest that had occurred in my life of late.

"Thank you, Dr. Watson," said he with a pleased smile. "You picked a fortunate week to attend. Every once in awhile I try to preach positively, hopefully. It is my belief that the fire-and-brimstone must be interplayed with love and forgiveness."

"A reasonable belief." I shook his hand once more, and said that Holmes and I would see him shortly for supper. I made no mention of what I had just overheard. I would have to ask Holmes for his opinion.

I found Holmes had returned from wherever he had disappeared to, and in fact, had returned to fall asleep in the little sitting room in front of a roaring fire. He was pale and lethargic, barely registering me as I awoke him. The entire cottage felt like an oven, but the day hardly called for such warmth. I had sweat on the back of my neck from the walk home.

"Do you feel alright?" I asked when he was awake.

"It is a question you never tire of asking, is it not?" He yawned and rose, but I could see in his eyes that the fatigue remained. But it was his mood that suggested I not ask questions. It was clear that the cocaine was having its way with his body-and perhaps his mind as well. But all I knew to do that may help was perhaps distraction. So while he bathed, shaved and dressed, I told him about my curious family, especially the strange stooped man and the conversation I had overheard. As far as the sermon, which he did not ask about, I said nothing. I did not think it prudent to discuss the aspects of forgiveness just yet.

"A family with strife is hardly what I would call fascinating," he said as he straightened his dinner tie. "If you look deep enough I am certain you will find it amongst any of these seemingly Christian families."

His disinterest did not deter me. I was sure that there was more to this clan then meets the eye. My own instincts proved right, as you may recall, but for the moment, Holmes paid the unfortunate Tregennis' clan no mind. We left the cottage just as the sun was turning red and slipping into the sea for a relatively silent journey to the vicarage. It is hard to say what occupied the both of our minds. Certainly, many thoughts passed between the two of us.

Mr. Roundhay was delighted at the very sight of Holmes, I could tell. He motioned us into his large entry and then to the ancient library. Everything was properly cleaned, of course, but the very size of it made the room seem dusty and weary. Holmes looked about him suspiciously, as if the vicar were trying to hide something from him. Wandering over to the bookcase, he perused the titles with a single glance, and let out an obnoxious yawn. I was used to his lethargy, as it were, for after a case he sometimes took to his bed for days. But there had been no case. There was no reason for his odd behaviour, or so I could see. He pulled out a thick volume bound in yellow and began to skim through it, but his hand began to shake so violently he quickly shoved it back into places. Our eyes met. He gave me a quick smile and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets.

"Well, gentlemen, what do you think of our fair Tredannick Wollas?" Mr. Roundhay asked.

"Completely charming," said I. Holmes said nothing.

At that moment, a second man appeared silently and whispered a few words to the vicar, who nodded and patted his arm before turning to back to us. "Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, I'd like you to meet my lodger, Mr. Mortimer Tregennis."

It was the very same dark-haired, stooped man from chapel. I should have suspected it would be he, for the two men had arrived together, but somehow in my distraction of Holmes' queer behaviour, I had forgotten that. Holmes, however, had not.

"And how are your brothers and sister, my dear Mr. Tregennis?" He smiled with self-assuredness.

Poor Tregennis was dumb-founded. His little bearded mouth dropped open, and in his spectacled eyes blazed a fierce curiosity mixed with anger. "How did you know, sir?"

Holmes laughed and explained, leaving me to feel a little embarrassed. I apologised for what I could not help but oversee, and although Tregennis waved it away with a few forgiving words, his tanned face flushed and a little disturbed. "My siblings and I frequently disagree on certain subjects," the man said. "Which is why I choose to live apart from them. But you mustn't think that we are estranged or the like. I still see them frequently." I was thankful that Holmes had not mentioned what I had overheard his siblings saying, as well.

Those were the first and nearly last words Mr. Tregennis would allow us that evening. As we went into the quaint dining area, with its ancient tapestries and detailed wood panels, Roundhay engaged Holmes and I into a detailed conversation about his work which Holmes tolerated for the soup and entrée courses, and although he sounded completely amiable and masterful in his story telling, I could tell he was both bored and disturbed. His hands still shook, his pupils were enlarged and in his eyes I could see an extreme exhaustion that I was unused to. But he seemed to have an appetite and appeared sound of mind, so I tried to ignore his other symptoms for the time being and to concentrate on both my supper and the conversation, trying to appear both interesting and conversive.

By the time the housekeeper had brought out the main course of Cornish under-roast with potato cakes, Holmes had deftly steered the conversation toward the history of the area, of which Roundhay was very well-up on, being a student of archaeology and history.

"We are thankful that there is little crime here on Poldhu Bay, but Cornwall in general is known for its less than law-abiding past. In fact, its history is filled with murder and the ghosts of the criminals and their victims are frequent subjects for the superstitious populace. You may have heard of Charlotte Dymond3, for example."

"Ha!" Holmes ejaculated. "I have had more than my share of the supernatural in my career. I prefer to concentrate on the horrors of which living man is capable of."

Roundhay smiled, while Tregennis barely looked up. "You are as completely rational as I would have expected, Mr. Holmes. I, being a man devoted to all things unseen, am unsure that everything in Heaven and Earth is knowable to us."

"Perhaps the isolation of the area can affect a man's judgment. If it can make him superstitious, it can make him mad. Perhaps turn a normal God-fearing person into a criminal," said I. I was thinking about the affect that isolation had on Holmes. Although it did not turn him into a criminal, or so I hoped, it had its adverse influences on his personality. How different he might have been had he been born to a family that had treated him as a child should be treated!

I was looked upon suspiciously with my comment by my friend, but he chose to ignore it, turning to the silent tenant. "You have lived here your entire life, Mr. Tregennis," said Holmes as if he had known the man a lot longer than an hour. "Do you have an opinion on isolation and its effect on the mind?"

"Perhaps some are simply born a bad seed, sir." Tregennis's voice had a clear edge of ice in it as he set down his knife and fork gently and wiped his mouth. "Excuse me, gentlemen, I feel I need some air." He left us without returning for dessert and coffee, walking swiftly toward the entry with his stooped back and dark head disappearing into the shadows.

"What an…interesting man." I watched him until he was gone, although I didn't really think him very interesting. Melancholy and rude. And mysterious. But I tried to maintain decorum.

"Do not think too unkindly of him, Dr. Watson," said our host. "While it is true he is a lonely and odd man, he has been trying of late to ingratiate himself again to his family. You see, there was some disagreement within the family when they sold out their interests in a tin-mine at Redruth. Well, to speak the truth of it, there was always a division in the family."

Holmes narrowed his eyes. "Still waters run deep. A quiet and lonely man may harbour dark feelings."

Roundhay nodded grimly and said, "Mortimer, being the eldest of the lot,4 was a grim and bully-ish sort of fellow as a lad, you see. I was too young to know them well as tots, but my own sister and brother frequently went about with the Tregennis', joining them in their play. Mortimer was the un-spoken leader of the gang, his brother George, the next in line, was a bookish and sickly lad, and the frequent target of his brother's wrath. Brenda, the only daughter of the family, was third in age, and as spirited a filly as you would ever see. She stood up to Mort-wouldn't allow him to make too much fun of Georgie and the baby of the family, Owen."

This brief genealogical history of the Tregennis family seemed to interest my friend, as he listened intently while sipping his second cup of coffee. I couldn't imagine why. "How came Mortimer Tregennis to be your tenant?" He asked.

"Well, as the family of children grew, there was some disagreement as to what would become of the estate. Mortimer, although the eldest, had no desire to take his place as squire, and joined the Army at a young age where he was wounded in the spine and has ever since walked with a stooped back. Tregennis senior was not particularly pleased to see his namesake neglect his duty, and so it was agreed that George would take his place. After all, he and his sister had remained at the estate to care for their aging parents, and when they died, it seemed fair for George, still at home, to take control of Tredennick Wartha. In any case, he did and so in his bitterness when the tin interests were sold, Mortimer caused such a fuss as we had never seen before here. He thought that, being the eldest son, he should get the bigger share of the money. The other three were for equal division. Mortimer left his siblings and offered me a fair amount for a suite of rooms here in the vicarage. I was alone, and appreciated the companionship, as well as the monetary benefits. Here he has remained for the better part of six years, despite the fact that the strife between the family has begun to be repaired."

"After seeing the hideous expression on Mr. Tregennis' face this morning, I would hardly think that the bad feelings are completely vanished."

It seemed to me that Roundhay flinched slightly at this, but at the time I thought little of it. "I am sure that it is not as you think." He said quickly, and then offered us more coffee and a dessert dish of small bread-like balls that the vicar said were a Cornish tradition, called splits. Holmes' head cocked slightly to the side, saying that he recalled them from his childhood. He dumped clotted cream and raspberry jam on top of his dish, and smiled reflectively.

"We used to call them thunder and lightening," he said softly as he preceded to eat two large servings. I watched in awe. The conversation never returned to the troubled Tregennis clan.

Holmes and I left shortly after dessert, bidding a very good night and much thanks to the young vicar. He made us promise to return to take tea with him before we departed Tredannick Wollas. I said that we would, although given my friend's odd behaviour, I was not sure that it was a promise I could keep. He shook Roundhay's hand briefly, suggested a book on the Palaeozoic fossils of Cornwall and Devon that would peak his interest, and then turned away, refusing to speak.

The black moor that surrounded us was abreast to the full moon, an odd contrast. Behind it, the sea still screamed with the sounds of crashing waves. And beside me, Holmes walked stiffly, as if in pain, with his head studying the uneven ground, apparently deep in thought, with his hands still shaking. I reached up to touch his face and was horrified to discover he was dripping with sweat. How I had not noticed this before, I was unsure. I seized his arm roughly.

"Holmes!"

He avoided my gaze, although made no effort to regain his arm. "I am fine."

"How can you stand there and speak such lies? You have not been well for a long time, but since we arrived in Cornwall, you seem to be nothing if not even worse. Please, when we are back to our cottage, you must let me examine you."

"I do not need an examination-it will tell you nothing."

"Now, Holmes, I know that you have little regard for my medical abilities-you have told me as much before5, but really"-

"Ha! No, that is your own interpretation and misconstruing of my words. I have never thought of you as anything but a qualified and eager physician. However, there really is nothing your medical knowledge can do for me at present. If that changes, I assure you I will inform you." He flinched at that, trying to hide it, but unable. I could see his face crumple slightly with the pain.

I thought of that damned needle. Of course, that was the culprit. I should have destroyed it years ago. Although, as masterful as he was, he would have simply marched over to the druggist and purchased another. "You are right of course," said I bitterly. "I cannot prevent your addiction. If you wish to destroy yourself with the drug, I cannot stop you. As much as I may wish it."

In the darkness, I saw his face cringe. "Is that what you think? That the cocaine is causing my ills?"

"What else would it be?"

"If you cannot see it, than you gravely disappoint me. How little…_trust _you have in me." He took off at a faster pace, clenching his chest and bent over slightly. Even ill and in pain he was still light on his feet and I had to hurry to catch him.

Trust? That one word was like a curse that constantly hung over us, always showing its dooming self whenever I thought there were any signs of hope. But I could not see how it played in this issue. Surely he was the one who never completely gave his confidence to me, and not the other way around. I could not see…

Unless…

"Holmes! Holmes, wait!" Ignoring my leg, which always throbbed slightly whenever I was exasperated with the man, I dashed across the uneven ground, tripping over Cornish heath until I had caught up to him. He was still walking briskly with an exhausted ache still upon his face. I immediately reached up to seize his arm, stopping him. "I apologise, Holmes. For not having faith in you. I should have seen that it was the detoxification of the cocaine that was causing your illness. I just assumed…well, that it was the other way around. Why on Earth did you not just tell me?"

"Because I knew what your reaction would be. You would digress into a primal caregiver and mother hen me to death. And although I want you near me until I am passed this, I cannot have you swooping over me constantly. It will negate my progress, having you always there and not…" He stopped and gave me the briefest of smiles. "I should hope that you will allow me to overcome this with as little interference from you as possible."

I stared at him, easily reading between the lines, as it were. "Is that what you wish?"

"It must be that way."

"Why, prey?"

He hesitated, the shaking growing noticeably worse. I reached for his arm again to steady him. He stiffened in my grasp, but did not pull away. I swear I could nearly feel the pain radiating from his body to mine. "I must not rely on you. You have your own life to live."

"Rubbish. I came with you on this holiday to help you."

The strength of his arm slackened within my hand. " 'Give it an understanding, but no tongue.'6 Your presence is a double-edged sword, my dear Watson. It is both my cure, and my…" He looked at me tenderly, if only for the briefest of seconds before returning to flawed steel. "Disease."

I sighed deeply. How could I but agree? "Alright, Holmes."

"Your word?"

"You have it," I sighed, not liking this arrangement. "But only inasmuch as you agree to allow me to fully examine you tonight, and take you to hospital if your condition worsens. I will not allow you to kill yourself just to save some misplaced sense of pride… or whatever else you are trying to protect."

His eyes widened. "My sanity, for one."

But this was said in such a voice that I did not dare ask questions or even try to presume what he meant by that. I had given my word and I would keep it.

That night I lay in bed trying to comprehend Sherlock Holmes. I had given him a thorough physical examination, albeit under duress, and I could not find enough to convince him that this isolated place, miles from the nearest hospital, was the very worst he could choose to recover. His pulse, blood pressure and temperature were all elevated, but his lungs sounded clear, his heart strong and he was clearly lucid. But it was still clearly painful to be without what he had slowly grown addicted to, as well as what he was suffering from within his mind. And although I knew he would try and keep as much of it from me as possible, the pain would clearly intensify before it would lessen.

I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, only to awaken several hours later feeling worried and sweating profusely. Visions of Holmes shaking and bent in pain filled my mind, and I knew I would be unable to rest unless I checked to make sure he was alright.

I heard him before I even reached his door, opposite mine. It was eerie as the hallway was completely black, and I could see nothing. But I heard his screams. For a moment, it went through my mind that I was still asleep, in the middle of my own nightmare. But I could feel the heavy Cornish pine of his door under my hand and up through my bare feet. Despite the still warmth of the evening, I felt a sudden chill.

I paused for a second. My heart throbbed uncontrollably, remembering the promise I made just hours earlier. I pressed my ear to the cool wood, straining to hear. But the noises he made sounded like nonsensical ramblings, and I could make out nothing specific. Only a lot of groaning and strange shouts. He sounded as if he were in pain. Again, my hand paused at the door.

I was a double-edged sword. Or rather, my presence was. He wanted me here, needed perhaps, although it was beyond his ability to admit as much. Yet, I was present, and he was forced to show mortal weakness in front of me. He was no longer a machine to me, and had not been for some time, but he had to believe within himself that this was how he was viewed. If not to me, then to everyone else. I knew that I must allow him to overcome this frailty alone. I would offer my aid at his side, as always, but also at a distance.

My hand dropped to my side. With a heavy heart, I returned to my bed.

1 Menhir is a Breton word meaning 'long stone' for the stone remains scattered about Cornwall, once used for grave sites and religious buildings. There are 90 on Land's End, where H and W are, alone.

2 Actually, in DEVI, Roundhay is described as middle-aged, but I needed him younger, so I changed his age.

3 A young woman supposedly murdered by her lover in 1844. Since that time, and especially on the anniversary of her death, Charlotte has been seen walking in the area, clad in a gown, a red shawl and a silk bonnet. Sentries of the Old Volunteers stationed in Roughtor were very reluctant to stand duty there, so convinced were they of her ghostly presence. A memorial stone marks the site of her murder, and the story has been immortalised too in "The Ballad of Charlotte Dymond", by Cornish poet Charles Causley.

4 Actually, in the canonical text, Mortimer says that George is elder to him, but I'm taking a bit of liberty here…well, there will be a lot of liberties taken with this case, as you will see. 

5 As in DYIN, where Holmes describes Watson's medical qualifications as mediocre. Of course, he is purposively doing it to keep Watson away from him, but still, it had to sting.

6 Hamlet, Act I, Scene II


	31. Chapter 31

_A/N: Probably thought I was lost forever, eh? I did too, for awhile. But life slowed down enough to allow me to (finally) finish another chapter. If there is anyone left out there, thanks for sticking with me. If not, that's okay, too. I'm still determined to finish this._

Holmes' behaviour altered little the next morning. He was up early, had breakfasted ravenously upon toast, eggs and black coffee, and had smoked at least two pipes and several cigarettes before I drowsily made my appearance. The only difference between the previous days and this was that he still remained at home. His hair was neatly brillotined and his face washed and shaved, but he still wore only his pyjamas and dressing gown. The craving of cocaine clearly was visible in his eyes that stared blankly at the window, barely seeing.

I came to sit next to him, and he appeared to notice me without acknowledging. I placed my hand over his, taking the cigarette absent-mindedly enclosed in two long fingers.

"Your tip was about to fall," I told him.

"Hmm?"

"Never mind. How do you feel?"

"Like I have spent the night with travelling with Virgil1." He turned his cold, bloodless face toward me. "What circle of Hell do you suppose a man like me would end up in? With the other sodomites, I expect. Walking forever in the rain of fire. But the choices are so numerous. Vanity, pride, lust…" He gave a dry little chuckle, which concluded in a chest-rattling cough so vicious I placed my hands on his back to brace him. For once, he allowed my touch. "When one has violated all seven sins there are so many possibilities, my dear Watson."

"Don't say such things. You are not going to end up in Hades."

"Ah! Ever the optimist." His eyes closed slightly, trying in vain to hide the pain. "But I don't suppose the afterlife- wherever I may end up- can be anymore painful than this."

I nearly then, in seeing him and remembering the screams from last night, wanted to find his drug and inject it into his vein myself. It was so deuced hard to see him in pain! But I knew I could not do that. "You must fight it, Holmes. I know that it's hard, but you mustn't give up."

His wiry arms suddenly flew up and grabbed my shoulders. For a second, I wondered if he was hugging me or attempting to strangle me. "Damn you!" He screamed. "Do you think I bloody give a damn about my own state of health? Whether I die tomorrow or fifty years from now will change nothing! I have known only pain and longing my entire life, and so it will be when I die as well! It is only…the disappointment in your eyes that makes me endure this burn. I cannot bear…for you to despise me…not you."

He had started by screeching into my face, a vice-like grip on my arms. His face burned red and slowly his eyes turned pink. His voice was hardly more than a whisper now. It was so rare that he spoke of such things to me. We were not poets and the softer passions, or at least the words describing them did not come easily. Surely, it was the pain, the craving, speaking for him. But seeing this confession, this rare glimmer of heart, was not exactly unwelcome, no matter the subterfuge. I put my hand to his cheek. "You could never disappoint me. How could you? You know I love"- I paused, the word sticking like glue in my throat.

He stared at me for the longest time, at first with furrowed brows as if confused by my words, but gradually this cleared and the more regular looks of superiority and dissidence returned. It occurred to me briefly how infrequently he may have heard that word, and then my stumbling over it like a fool experiencing puppy love.

Holmes pulled away suddenly, snapping his head toward the window. His voice lost the cracks and became rich once again. "We are about to have guests, Watson. Do try and compose yourself."

I will, of course, spare you the details of which you are already aware, that being the hurried arrival of the vicar Roundtree and his tenant, Mortimer Treggenis. Holmes and I sat smoking and listening, although I must admit that the two Cornish gentlemen's stories fascinated my friend more than I. He seemed able to disconnect his mind from what had just happened while I possessed no such ability.

"Remarkable-most remarkable. I will look into this matter if you care to walk over with me. Come along, doctor. I am afraid you must delay your breakfast for now."

We departed into the morning sun, with Treggenis leading swiftly and the salt of the sea buried in our noses. It occurs to me now that a word or two of warning and explanation is warranted as to the origins of this case being published. To begin with, I never expected that it would. When, years from this point, I had received permission from Holmes to publish further stories of his cases, this particular tale was never among those I considered worthy of publication. This was partly do to my friend's state of mind and what had just occurred in our lives. But that could have been worked around, as all who have read no doubt see. But there was another necessity of the case I could not see around. So when I received word from Holmes that read "_Why not tell them of the Cornish horror--strangest case I have handled_," I thought him mad. But before I could do so much as telephone and ask him what on Earth he could be thinking, I received a telephone call myself. Holmes, as usual, had read my mind.

"After all, Watson," he had said. "It has been nearly thirty years. Dr. Sterndale is either dead of an African disease or long since buried himself on that dark continent. The Tregennis' clan is all, of course, non-existent now. And Reverend Roundtree passed on just one year ago of a cancer. I have read the obituary myself in the _Royal Cornwall Gazette._"

And so, partly because it was sad to me to hear of Roundtree's death and to once again remember the events of the case, I decided that a case could be conceived from the facts of the Cornish horror, with only one or two alterations. Mainly, which Tregennis family member was actually the one to lose their life that late March morning.

After Holmes's ramble through the massive garden front of the large cottage, and the wetting of our feet, as is told in my published case, we were lead past the sitting room where the tragedy occurred into a darkened room lit only by several candles; the sun being blocked out by heavy black drapes. Upon the bed lay the youngest of the sibling quartet- young Owen Tregennis. He was a handsome lad- although hardly he could be called such as he was approaching middle age, but there was a sturdiness to the jaw line and a thick covering of dark curls upon his head that belied age and made him seem most attractive, even with his face still contorted in the agony of his unusual death.

Holmes looked at him, inspected him it seemed, with his eyes only. The body was still clothed in his evening attire and except for the contorted twist of his mouth, looked for all the world as though he had just passed out on the bed. "Hmm…" I heard Holmes mutter, and for a second one of his hands brushed over the man's waist coat to where his silver watch chain was still attached. The chain was thin and unadorned except for what looked like a gold ring which, at the time, I thought nothing of.

"And what of your other brother, Mr. Tregennis?" Holmes asked of the remaining sibling, who would venture no further than the threshold. "And your sister?"

"They have been taken to Helston." There was an eerie chill in the tenant's voice that even I picked up on. Completely without emotion.

"I see." Holmes took one last look at the body before whipping around and heading down to the sitting room.

After the interview in that room which, to my knowledge, I have reproduced with some accuracy, both Holmes and I slowly rambled back to our Poldhu Cottage in silence. Holmes had promised to turn over the facts in his mind, and I was attempting to do the same, but my mind was mingled with worries about Holmes' health, my child left parentless once again in London, and the uncertainty of my relationship with this man: _A  
fire in the fireplace in spring, Holmes screaming in the night, George Tregennis's strange sighting at the card game, Josh resenting his father, Owen Tregennis's watch chain, Holmes still loving me and me him…_

Holmes lit his pipe and curled in his chair, but as I made us a pot of tea, it became clear that he was having much difficulty concentrating. The blue swirls of smoke trailed toward the window and as I looked in on him, I saw him starring vacantly out at the moors. The water had yet to even boil before I heard a curse from the other room and Holmes jumping to his feet. "It won't do, Watson!" He called. "I'm going out for a walk. There is too much to distract me in here."

He hardly had to say what exactly it was that was distracting to him indoors, as I could be fairly certain that the morning's activities had something to do with it.  
Nevertheless, I pulled the kettle off of the fire and went in search of my coat and hat. "I'm going with you." And before he could do so much as open his mouth to object, I had opened the door for him. "It will do you no good, so I suggest you walk."

I was supplied with one of those rare, whip-fast smiles as Holmes bolted away from me.

Holmes' face never left the ground as we skirted the cliffs together, although he never stopped talking about what we did know in the case. He had said we were looking for flint arrows, but it appeared to me that the Neolithic ruins were the farthest thing from his mind. At last we came to a soft, grassy covered mound overlooking the crashing waves of the sea. Holmes sat down hard, his breath ragged and sweat dripping profusely from his brow. "You perceive our difficulties, Watson?"

"All too clearly." I narrowed my eyes sternly at him. "You should be home, resting. I told Roundhay specifically that you were in Cornwell to _rest _and we no sooner arrive than another case is thrust at you."

Holmes, in way of answering, gripped at his gut and was to his feet in a second, turning away from me to retch. When he sat back down, he smiled weakly, but knew enough that he need not apologize to me for his weakness. "You're right, of course."

"I…beg your pardon?"

"You are completely correct, Watson." He wiped his mouth with his handkerchief before allowing himself to fall completely backward against the grass, blinking upward at the sun. "My brain is like an engine ripping itself to pieces. This puzzle is complex, yet there are aspects of it that are simplicity in itself. And still, as I turn over the facts, all I can think of is…" He declined to finish.

Cautiously, I laid a hand upon his shoulder. He made no move to stop me. "You know, Holmes," I began, trying to keep the doctoral tone out of my voice. "There would be no shame to calling in the regulars here. Admitting that you are too ill"-

"Sterndale." Holmes immediately pulled away, sitting up and jerking his head to the North. I turned to see a massive shape bearing down on us with the all the physicality of a grizzly bear. Holmes had no need to offer any explanation, for it was perfectly clear that this was the legendary lion-hunter, Dr. Leon Sterndale. He appeared absolutely gigantic to me at first, but that was partly do to the fact that he was standing and we sitting, but even as we rose to meet him, he was still several inches taller than Holmes' six feet. His golden beard was grizzled and his craggy face was lined with worry, but in age, I couldn't have put him more than forty. There was still something of youth that glistened in his dark eyes, despite the obvious glint of anger.

"You are Sherlock Holmes," he said in way of greeting. "And I have heard of the happenings at Treddanick Wartha this morning. What have you learned so far? Who has done this horrible thing?"

Holmes shook his head. "I can hardly answer that, Dr. Sterndale."

"You know me, then."

"Yes, of course. But only what I have read. I don't know, for example, why this matter would be of importance to you."

Sterndale answered that the Tregnennises were cousins upon his mother's side, or some such nonsense that I could tell from Holmes' bodily shifts that he did not believe. After a lengthy conversation about how the doctor could have heard of this murder already and the loss of his luggage in his haste to return, Sterndale became angry. Holmes seemed to have a slight glint in his eye that made me suspicious, and I was certain that he knew something. But was it that he suspected this famous lion-hunter of committing this heinous act, or was it something else?

Sterndale's eyes narrowed when it became clear that my friend would tell him nothing. "Then I have wasted my time and need not prolong my visit." He turned in his tracks and marched away with such anger that I was nearly glad he was gone. Holmes' was rubbing his chin methodically, watching the massive back as it became smaller and smaller. "There was something to that, eh, Watson?"

"He appears to be deeply interested."

"Yes…deeply interested." He stood up into the wind and glanced at the waves below us before motioning for me to follow.

We had hardly reached the door to our cottage when Holmes collapsed upon the settee and in minutes was asleep. He slept all the rest of that afternoon and was still asleep as I turned a few uninterested pages in a novel, trying to fend off tiredness myself. But my mind was as far away from the rough seas and the adventures of the _Sea Unicorn _as was humanly possible. My eyes drifted to the prostrate form of my friend, who slept, albeit with the occasional mutter and head thrash. I could only imagine how horrible his body must feel without the drug. And I could not help but feel responsible for him. I mean, after all, he had been…almost happy for that brief period of time. I recalled a moment on a train when I felt as though we three were a family. I recalled a brilliant May morning, sharing a cigarette and Holmes infuriating me with more Latin. I recalled many nights…nights spent when I wondered how I could ever have thought of Sherlock Holmes as a machine. A brain without a heart. To see him unclothed and moaning into my mouth…

I shook my head to erase all such thoughts. That was the past, I reminded myself. Whatever we had felt for each other was over, at least by necessity if not by chose. I had responsibilities. _Responsibilities you are at this very moment neglecting. _Perhaps I should have bought the boy with us, forced Holmes to relent. But I could not let him see his master like this. And I could not let him see us together, to get the impression that we might resume living together. It was a queer thing to think that of the two people most important in my life, one of which was my legacy and flesh and blood, I always chose Holmes. But as my head drooped back and my eyes blurred with sleep, I could not think myself wrong. He needed me. He needed me here. The greatest mind of our generation needed me.

I awoke so suddenly the next morning that my mind was dizzy from half-consciousness. Holmes was shaking my arm and I heard the sound of a carriage in full gallop just outside our cottage window. My neck was aching terribly from a night spent in the armchair, and I rubbed it absently while I tried to focus my eyes.

"It's Roundhay," Holmes was saying as he straightened his necktie. "I imagine he has news for us."

"Roundhay?" I tried to remember who that was. I was feeling my two war wounds, and my most recent even more as the blood starting flowing through my mind.

Before Holmes could even reply, our front door burst open and a pale-faced Francis Roundhay came dashing in. He was completely out of breath and looked even younger in his fright than he had either of the previous days. His eyes were wet and his face red from the full gallop of his dogcart. Holmes and I merely stared at him for the some minutes it took him to regain the ability to speak. "My poor parish," he gasped, nearly in tears. "My poor parish…it is devil-ridden!"

Holmes, to my surprise, actually came over to him and took his arm, leading him to the settee he had spent the night on. "Deep breaths, vicar. There is no hurry. Compose yourself." He patted his hand and motioned for me to pour to man some water, which I did.

"We are surely devil-ridden!" He cried after he had consumed a full glass. "Satan himself is loose in my parish! Mortimer…poor Mortimer Tregennis died during the night, with the exact same symptoms as his family."

I am sure that my mouth fell open at this news, and although Holmes sprang to his feet, there was something about the way he cocked his neck that made me that this was not particularly surprising to him. "Can you fit us both in your dog-cart?" He was already to the door before the vicar answered and I think he would have ran to the vicarage if the answer had been to the negative. He seemed to have recovered something of his vitality through his sixteen-hour sleep.

I need not tell you what was found in the rooms of Mortimer Tregennis, as it is already dutifully recorded. Mortimer was destined to join his younger brother Owen in the afterlife, and now of four siblings just two days ago hearty enough, two were dead and two as good as. Holmes appeared all energy, just as he had been when last I had known him, and while I was glad that something, anything, had come along to distract him, I still feared for his health. As the regulars were called in, and in their resentment of non-com officiated, we were left in the dark for some couple of days, but this seemed to not matter to my friend. He spent the time smoking, eating, leaving our little cottage when the sickness again took over him, and generally ignoring me.

But after two days with no news, Holmes departed early in the morning, and returned some hours later with a large package. As it was unwrapped, I immediately recognised it as a lamp, and more exact, a duplicate lamp to the one still smoking that we had observed in the bedroom of Mortimer Tregennis. I learned quickly what he planned to do.

"There is no need for you to stay, Watson," said he. "I know that you are far too sensible for this bit of foolhardiness."

The way he looked at me, the curious sliver of light in his eye, seemed to me as though he were testing me. I let out a deep breath. "I will stay, of course."

He smile, however brief, rewarded me. "I thought I knew my Watson."

_I am sure he did. _And so two chairs were placed side-by-side and we sat in total silence after the bit of stolen powder was placed on the smouldering lamp. It sizzled at first, and then smoked- a heavy reddish cloud. My last rational thought was to hold my breath, but I could not. A heavy, sweetish odour began to hiss and swirl into the air and the effect hit me almost immediately. My mind began to wander, but after no more than a few seconds, I actually felt as though the images in my mind were actually occurring. What I saw was at first a _black cloud, but it soon gained clarity and I was certain that I saw a man in a dark robe holding an axe. Blood dripping from the blade. So much blood. Standing right in front of me, in this very room. I saw a young blond man wearing a uniform lying in a pool of his own fluids. His abdomen was nearly severed. There were other people that looked vaguely familiar, but at the time I was unable to recognize them. My sister. My brother. My little cousin. My parents. My wife. All floating in a cloud of thick red blood. My hair-every hair on my body-was beginning to stand up. My eyes were growing too large for my head. In any second, they would pop. They were all dead. All dead and it was my fault. The man with the axe was turning to me. His weapon was posed over the body of Holmes, whose face had froze and turned nearly completely white. It seemed to me that I screamed, but it could have been in my mind_.

All I remember was that I grabbed Holmes and with a supreme effort lurched our two bodies out of the door and on to the grass plot. We lay there side by side, though I could still feel the arm of my partner round my waist, revelling in the glorious sun and gentle sea breeze. Slowly, my mind began to return to normal. The horrid images fled, and my skin no longer felt like clammy. I wiped my tongue with my handkerchief. I would have sworn it had turned to leather. I managed to turn slightly, rolling over to see how Holmes was faring.

He was coughing strongly, gripping his chest with a screwed-up face of pain. Whatever panicked images of terror had occurred in his mind, they had had a profound effect on him. Knowing as I did the pain of his early days, I could certainly imagine what he must have seen. I grabbed his arm and pulled him toward me. With a groan that bordered on a cry, he collapsed against me, still breathing hard and covered in beads of sweat. Putting my hand to his cheek, I found it was icy cold. I held him a little closer.

"John!" He cried, without really seeing me. "John…"2

"That was a stupid and dangerous thing to do! We could have been killed!" But in seeing him in such a state, still not completely recovered, I could not be angry. Whatever had happened in his mind was certainly punishment enough.

"Upon my word, Watson!" said Holmes at last with an unsteady voice, "I owe you both my thanks and an apology. It was an unjustifiable experiment even for one's self, and doubly so for a…for _you. _I am really very sorry."

"I should say so…" And then there was quiet again and we both spoke not, simply sat in the sun and listened to the waves kill themselves against the rocks below us, until I last felt able enough to risk standing. Holmes, in his already weakened state, did not even attempt it, and I went into our cottage for both a carafe of water and my friend's flask. Both were empty by the time we finished with them.

"It was useful, nonetheless." Holmes said quietly at last.

"What's that?"

"The experiment. Surely you see now that this little problem is clear."

"I'm sure, Holmes, I see nothing of the kind. You mean to say you've solved it?"

"Oh, yes…" He twirled the remaining bit of water round and round in his glass. "In fact, I expect that he shall grace our humble cottage path in a matter of some hours. The sun is enjoyable to me today, Watson. I will wait for him here."

I had no intention of returning to that room still filled with the black cloud of death, and so I settled myself next to my friend under a large oak tree, and awaited what I was sure Holmes already knew but would not tell me. Yet I was so relieved that we had just escaped death, I could hardly be upset with him.

"What did you see?" He asked after some time.

"See?"

"In there. When the powder had hold of your senses. What did you see?"

I swallowed heavily, considering lying. But he, the master, had always been able to tell when I did so. "I saw…nearly every horrible moment of my life. All at once." I downed another swallow of water, pretending as though I was concentrating on my beverage. "It felt…what I saw felt as though it was occurring in front of me. Yet I was powerless to stop it."

Holmes sort of grimaced and nodded. "I saw you and your son being ripped to pieces."

"What?"

He looked at me for a long second, and then reached into his waist coat for his cigarette case. But rather than taking one and smoking it, he instead turned the perfectly polished case over and over in his long, white fingers. "I was the one that was doing it, Watson. I was killing you both. With my own hands."

How could I reply to that? "It doesn't mean anything, Holmes."

He took nearly a minute to answer. "I certainly hope not," he muttered.

My mind still lost on my near-death experience and Holmes' vision, I hardly noticed when Sterndale stealthily appeared on the path just before our gate. His hirsute face wore a haggard expression, as if sleep had eluded him for more than one night.

"I received your telegram," said he, his voice a gruff growl. "And I find it perplexing that a mere two days ago you would hardly satisfy me as to the time of day and now you say you are willing to confess all."

"Confess all…" Holmes' gaze crept into mine. "A curious choice of words. But it is hardly appropriate to discuss matters out in the open such as it is. Please, do come inside. Our little cottage is hardly worthy of such a guest as yourself, but your appearance will greatly enhance the ambience."

The cloud had dissipated somewhat and the air appeared breathable once again. I drew aside the curtains and the sun shone in, giving me the feeling of false hope. Holmes led our guest to the settee. "You'll drink, of course?"

Sterndale hesitated slightly, before nodding. "Divine intervention suggests to me I shall need it."

"You are a religious man, then?" I placed a glass of scotch into his massive paw.

"Not in the least. It was forced upon me as a youngster, but I have lost all faith in my experience as an adult."

"No doubt the unfortunate business with the Tregennis family had something to do with your anger."

"What do you mean, sir?" Sterndale looked at Holmes in a way that compelled me to step toward my friend in a protective way, but before I could get there, he had finished his meaning.

"I mean, Dr. Sterndale, that you have killed Mortimer Tregennis. And the reason you have done so is because he killed the man you loved, Owen Tregennis."

_For a moment I wished that I were armed. Sterndale's fierce face turned to a dusky red, his eyes glared, and the knotted, passionate veins started out in his forehead, while he sprang forward with clenched hands towards my companion. Then he stopped, and with a violent effort he resumed a cold, rigid calmness, which was, perhaps, more suggestive of danger than his hot-headed outburst.__3_The glass and the remnants of the alcohol fell to the floor and shattered. The lionhunter's hand went to his head and pressed against his temple. I must admit that as for myself, I was completely stunned. But the expected outburst of protests never reached our ears. He simply sat and moaned for more than one minute, whilst I could hardly think and Holmes simply stood and looked at him. I shall never forget the expression on his face. It was the most curious mix of antipathy and compassion.

At last, Sterndale rose, glanced curiously at the glass upon the floor as if he were startled to see it, and uninvited, went to our sideboard and helped himself to a double whiskey, which was immediately downed. After a series of deep breaths, he at last turned to us. "How did you know?" His voice had lost all traces of superiority.

Holmes explained his suspicions about the lionhunter's questioning of him, of his luggage left behind, and how he had followed him to the vicarage and then to his own cottage. He explained how he had thrown several handfuls of gravel against Mortimer Tregennis's window, drawing the man into an interview, gained entrance, and committed the ultimate act of vengeance.

_Sterndale sprang to his feet. "I believe that you are the devil himself!" he cried. _

_Holmes smiled at the compliment. _"Upon the body of Owen Tregennis I found a gold ring adorned with a small African tanzanite and because I find coincidence a hard concept to swallow, I admit that I began to see your part in this. It was not an easy piece of the puzzle to connect, but the logician cannot discount anything."

_Our visitor's face had turned ashen gray as he listened to the words of his accuser. Now he sat for some time in thought with his face sunk in his hands. Then with a sudden impulsive gesture he plucked a photograph from his breast-pocket and threw it on the rustic table before us. _The handsome dark face of the youngest Tregennis stared out at us as if from beyond the grave.

"It must be hard for men like you gentlemen to contemplate something so disgusting and unnatural, but I tell you this- for years I have loved Owen. For years he has loved me. You must understand. We grew up together, felt each others' pain as the youngest son and furthest from the affection of our parents. He and I…we were so much alike. Both practical and intelligent, but both dreaming of our impact on the world as well. Perhaps neither of us intended that…that we should feel anything other than a filial affection as we talked of seeing the world and of medicine, but…" _A terrible sob shook his great frame, and he clutched his throat under his brindled beard. Then with an effort he mastered himself and spoke on. _"I had no idea that any of his siblings knew. Roundtree was in our confidence, and no doubt you think him a curious choice for a confederate, given his profession, but the young vicar is of the mind that you should love the sinner, if not the sin. _That was why he telegraphed to me and I returned. What was my baggage or Africa to me when I learned that such a fate had come upon my darling? There you have the missing clue to my action, Mr. Holmes."_

_"Proceed," said my friend._

What occurred next, you no doubt know, reader, as Sterndale related the details of the powder, how he had unwittingly informed Mortimer Tregennis of its existence, and how the eldest brother used it to seek his revenge upon his siblings. Both for crimes real- as Francis Roundhay had informed us of, and for crimes imagined- those being his brother Owens.

"I never knew that Mortimer was aware of Owen and I," Sterndale repeated. "Nor Brenda or George, but it was Mortimer I most feared. He was a cold, unfeeling, _unforgiving_ sort, even as a child. He would never have stood by his brother in such a way, had he known, as George and Brenda would. But somehow he did find out, and no doubt has been plotting his evil intentions for years. Waiting for the perfect opportunity. And I…I unknowingly gave it to him." He paused, glancing about, and I was uncertain as to whether he was looking for more alcohol or to bolt away from here.

Holmes frowned, his head shaking slightly side to side. "You must not blame what you could not have known. The fault lies squarely with Tregennis."

"That is of little comfort to Owen," the mighty hunter said softly. "Or to George and Brenda." After clearing his throat loudly, he seemed to regain some composure. "But I digress, and to return to my explanation, I was placed in an impossible position. I could not appeal to the law, for I would be admitting to more than honour allows. And who would believe such a fantastic thing! _My soul cried out for revenge. I have said to you once before, Mr. Holmes, that I have spent much of my life outside the law, and that I have come at last to be a law to myself. _And so I went to Tregennis and _I laid his offence before him. I told him that I had come both as judge and executioner. The wretch sank into a chair, paralyzed at the sight of my revolver. I lit the lamp, put the powder above it, and stood outside the window, ready to carry out my threat to shoot him should he try to leave the room. In five minutes he died. My God! how he died! But my heart was flint, for he endured nothing which my innocent darling had not felt before him. There is my story, Mr. Holmes." _He paused and stared at my friend as if trying desperately to force him, with his mind, to understand, to realise. "_Perhaps, if you loved a woman, you would have done as much yourself."_

Holmes snorted, but it was not done in rudeness, in my mind, just irony. I quickly looked away. "If I had not called you here, if I had not deduced your plans, what would you have done?"

"Returned to Africa, where my work is but half done."

My friend's grey eyes met mine, however briefly, before returning to his examination of Sterndale. He rose to his feet and went to the window, as if the answers lay in the streaks of glass that bore his reflection. He folded his arms across his chest before saying, perfectly calmly and seriously: "Go and do the other half."

Sterndale shot up, his bulky frame causing the chair to scream after supporting such a load. As Holmes' back was to us, he seemed uncertain what to do. I shook my head slightly when he looked to me for assistance, and he walked to the door, apparently in shock. "I cannot think what to say to you, Mr. Holmes. And you as well, doctor. I know that it is an impossible thing for gentleman such as yourselves to understand, sirs, but for what it is worth, you have both my thanks and gratitude." He bowed gravely and was gone as certainly and suddenly as he had appeared.

Holmes continued his solitary vigil by the window for some minutes after the lion-hunter had departed, and I knew better than to disturb him. I wondered if he were watching him leave, trudging down the path to the cliffs, where in a matter of days he would be alone on a ship bound for darkest Africa, lost in his grief but safe from prosecution. When at last my friend spoke, it was in a gravely voice I had not heard from him in some time. _"You would not denounce the man?" He asked._

_"Certainly not._ How could I? I cannot believe that he admitted it to us."

"What chose had he? He realised I knew all, and to deny it would have only placed the noose around his neck."

I felt a sudden obligation to state the obvious. "You let him leave, Holmes. Surely your own sympathies played a part in that."

I had thought this might anger him, but instead he turned 'round and smiled seriously, as if the very action gave him pain. "Ten years ago, perhaps even five, I would never have done so. But I have loved, Watson, and if the person I loved had met such an end, I might act even as our lawless lion-hunter has done."

His words touched me so that I could not resist allowing an unusual happiness to flow through my veins. "Oh? And who might you be referring to, my dear sir?"

In a matter of replying, he knocked me hard upon my shoulder, although the serious smile remained. "We do not cease feeling on demand, Watson," he said cryptically. "And now, I feel quite done in. I shall have some quick supper and be off to the land of Morpheus."

And there ended the case of the Devil's Foot, and at last I feel something akin to pride that it is dutifully recorded as it happened, there being no need for lies and half-truths. In many of my cases, as you no doubt know, there has been need for discretion and the bending of the truth, but it gives me pleasure now to not have to hide. This need to hide cost Sterndale and Owen Tregennis the chance at happiness, as it did for a great deal of time my own. But if there was nothing but dark fate for those two unfortunate men, then what of myself and Sherlock Holmes? Would we meet the same doom? It had seemed so at the time, but, as was always the case with my life when entangled with the man, a strange twist of providence thrust me down a path I had never conjectured I would be upon again.

It began when there arrived at our little cottage a telegram. Holmes, now that the case had ceased, could forego acting on adrenaline and convalesce normally, and he did so. He slept most of the time, and I tried to pretend I could not hear him screaming and thrashing about in the night, vomiting into his dustbin and sweating so profusely that he drenched all of his bed linens.

He would allow me to do little for him, except to cook his meals. Gradually, his appetite became more normal. Normal for Holmes, anyhow. I insisted that he drink water and tried to distract him as much as possible. He would take nothing for the pain, not even a sixth of a grain of morphine. I persuaded him to take a little whiskey mixed with ginger when the stomach pains became unbearable, but that was it.

"It won't do," he mumbled, when I tried to inject him with something a little more powerful. "This I must bear, Watson. Must bear it now so that I won't have to again." And then he grunted, clenching his stomach, and dropped off.

But I digress, and in two weeks time, there seemed to be a marked improvement in the man. I noticed it at first as he began to pick at his food once again, and his need for tobacco strongly increased. For several days, he tore through all the books in the cottage, reading in brief spurts what he chose before tossing the volume aside and moving on to another. Then he progressed to dressing and sitting in the sun, occasionally picking at his violin, but more often then not, just staring for hours at a time at the sea. He would talk to me when I initiated a conversation, but it seemed to pain him to do so. He seemed to realise that the sooner he regained his constitution, the sooner we would leave. The sooner things would return to the way they had been.

And when, on our third week passed, the telegram arrived via a local lad in the employ of the post, events forced that inevitability sooner than either of us expected. It was from, of all people, my medical partner, Linwood Askew and read:

_Landlady Ill Stop_

_Return Home Immediately Stop_

_Askew_

1 The guide in Dante's _Inferno _

2 Okay, we all know that Holmes calling Watson 'John' occurred in the Granada series and not in the canon, but it was such a great moment, I had to throw it in.

3 This, and subsequent italicized passages, taken directly from "The Devil's Foot"


	32. Chapter 32

_A/N: So once again I emerge from the depths. I find it odd that were Josh real and had he been born when I started this, he would be practically the same age as he is now in the story. Geez. Sooo…anyway. Thanks to all those still putting up with my sub-tortoise speed. Oh, and the 'XXX' indicates a break. Apparently, astericks don't work anymore._

Baker Street had never looked so deserted when we arrived to it. Holmes and I had wasted no time, of course, in coming back, but neither of us could imagine what had happened. Holmes, who seemed to have regained much of his strength in previous days, had shrunk back into misery once more, or so it seemed to me. Throughout the train ride home, he had said very little. He sat wrapped in a woolen coat, muff and scarf, despite the fact that the weather had warmed considerably and watched the passing country-side ramble past.

"Surely it can't be that serious," I said to him, thinking of Mrs. Hudson. "She always had the energy of a woman half her age. It must not be _that _serious."

Holmes looked at me sharply. "Are you trying to convince me or yourself?"

I didn't reply. I left him to his miserable mood and tried to think positive thoughts.

But to return to Baker Street. Not in all my memory had I seen our little 221 B flat looking so dark and abandoned. Evening was upon us yet no one had lit the gas lamp adjacent to the doorbell. The steps had a week's accumulation of dust and dirt. When Holmes gained us entrance with his latchkey, the entire house was black as night. A burst of cold crept through my backbone. Something was very wrong.

"There's no one here, Holmes." I said quietly.

"Indeed. Nor have been for several days, at least." He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and frowned into the kitchen where the remains of a breakfast and a sink of dishes lay abandoned, all covered in white grease.

It suddenly occurred to me that if no one were here at Baker Street, I had no idea where my son was. The telegram has said only to return immediately but nothing more. If Mrs. Hudson was very sick and in hospital, then who was caring for him? Had he been left to fend for himself? I retained a charwoman for my new flat, but I had given her the month off as there was no sense in cleaning an unoccupied house. There was no one here, no one there, and where else would he go?

Holmes sneered before I could say a word and returned his topper to his head. "Well, we will learn nothing here. It's Sunday, and we can assume that your new partner will know what has happened. Have you his home address?"

"Home address? Oh, yes…of course. He's on New Cavendish, I believe."

But he was already speeding down the steps and motioning a cab over. I swallowed hard.

XXX

I truly think Linwood Askew was surprised to see the pair of us, though he hid it well. A bachelor, he answered the door to his flat himself in the comfort of his shirt sleeves, his coat just being pulled on. I much later had time to reflect on why I was so certain he was shocked to see Holmes and I on his stoop. I concluded he reasoned we were not coming back to London.

He offered me his hand and shook mine warmly. He merely nodded at Holmes. Although truly I cared little for measures of grace right then.

"I really am very sorry, John," said he, motioning us inside. "I wish I could have contacted you sooner, but there seemed to be some confusion as to your whereabouts."

_Always the discreet fellow—that was me. _"Yes, well, Holmes here, he was…rather ill and needed to convalesce. I had told Mrs. Hudson where, but, perhaps we should have"-

"The fault lies completely with myself, Dr. Askew," Holmes interrupted my rambling. "I had need for a brief holiday do to overwork and wished, for obvious reasons, not to publicise my momentary lapse of constitution."

"Of course." Askew's left eyebrow cocked. "I am sure that secrecy is an invaluable tool in detective work. It is only a shame that you could not have been back in time."

I felt the breath leave my lungs. "In time? For what?"

He blinked as if it should have been obvious. But before he could reply, Holmes did the honours. "Mrs. Hudson has died." His voice was soft, unlike the man. He averted his gaze and offered no further comment as to how he knew this.

"Died?" Askew nodded. "But you said she was ill! Simply ill! Good God!"

How could she be dead? So suddenly? Rationally, I knew of dozens of ways and could dispassionately describe the symptoms as a medical man. I had seen hundreds, if not thousands, of bodies—young and old, some disfigured beyond recognition and others as beautiful and unmarred as they had been in life.

It had been some time, though, since a death had hit me so hard.

"It appeared to be apoplexy1. Your boy came running to the practise Wednesday last, screaming that his 'Mrs. Hudson' was ill, that she was dying. I came with him to your flat"-

"My _old _flat," I spoke involuntarily. I could almost feel Holmes stiffen beside me.

"Yes," said Askew. "Of course. Well, I am sorry to say that she was already deceased when I found her. The blockage must have been quite severe, but fortunately I am sure she went quickly. A mercy, this day and age."

"Quite." Holmes growled.

Askew cleared his throat. "You must think me a perfect cad for the misleading telegram. I thought only to bring you back and reasoned it would be more appropriate to break the news in person. There was no need to shock you when there was nothing you could do."

"Quite," said Holmes once more. All I could do was shake my head.

XXX

My son was staying at the James Parks' residence. Of all the bloody places. But then I remembered that I was indebted to Parks for the help of a tight situation. _He thinks you are bugger. _

I climbed into a cab behind Holmes. I nearly laughed at the irony. _I bloody well am!_

"Something amusing, Watson?" His voice was flat.

"No. Nothing. Of course not."

Askew had been far more confident than ever I had seen him. And I could not believe his behaviour towards Holmes. It had taken me weeks to simply cease his excessive questions about him. And now, his chance to see him in person, and there had been nothing. No excitement, no nervousness. He had seemed sincere, but…

Suspicious. Was this James Parks all over again?

"Josh."

"What about him?"

"He will hate me forever," I mumbled. "Good God."

Holmes shifted about in his seat, quiet, until just before we pulled up in front of a fashionable Kensington home that I had been to many times with my late wife. He suddenly reached out, squeezed my uninjured shoulder, and said, "Don't speak rubbish."

XXX

Mrs. Parks, whom at one point I was on intimate enough terms to call 'Sarah,' answered the door personally. I had not seen her in more than a year now, but she still retained a sincere smile and warmth when she took my hand.

"I am most sorry about your landlady, gentlemen. I understand she was a good friend of you both."

I thought on all the abuse hurled at Mrs. Hudson over the years. By Holmes inane mumblings about her being in the way, yelling at her for cleaning his 'organised' messes and for hot water. She always put up with him. Her hands had been shaking when she had told me once Holmes was dying2. He was not of course, and I knew she had never completely forgiven him for it. Yet she allowed him to stay. And more importantly, he _had _remained. "Yes," I said. "She was indeed…good to us."

Holmes gave no reply. Merely shifted slightly from one foot to another, hands clasped tightly behind his back. I looked away from him. "I cannot thank you enough, Sar…Mrs. Parks, for caring for Josh. And I should offer my thanks to James, as well. Is he..is he home?"

"No, I'm afraid he is not."

_Thank God._

"Josh is a delightful boy. Quiet. Well-behaved. Boys can be such hellions." She smiled. Holmes snorted.

Three small heads appeared then—or two, rather, at first. A boy and his sister, Parks's children. James had been my assistant when each was born, yet now I could hardly recall their names or ages.

"Jimmie. Fannie," Mrs. Parks went to take each one by the hand, "Mind your manners. You must say hello to Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes."

They both mumbled something inaudible to the carpeting and then ran off, whispering to one another. Both had very much the look of their father. I had forgotten.

The third child appeared. My child. He looked bathed, well-fed and his suit of clothing laundered. He had not grown nor aged more than a few weeks. Yet there seemed to be something different about him. His skin was pale; his face shrunken, completely blank. "Well, there you are." Mrs. Parks beamed. "Look who made it home to you."

Josh looked at her, and then me, his eyes bright for one brief second before they clouded over again. He ran straight at Holmes with a cry of 'Uncle' who had no choice but to seize the boy in his arms or be trampled under.

I patted his back awkwardly, telling his 'there, there' or some other nonsensical parental pacification. Thankfully, I was spared further embarrassment as he did not pull away. He did, however, grip Holmes's neck as tightly as he could with his small hands, his face buried in the man's shoulder. Anyone would have thought he was the son of Sherlock Holmes. After all, who the deuce was John Watson? What did he matter in the scheme of things?

XXX

I thanked Mrs. Parks again, conveying my gratitude to her husband as well, however thankful I may have been that I did not have to see him. I took my son's little bag while Holmes took my son, still clutching at him like a drowning man might a passing boat. I hailed a cab with my stick, and as the hansom lazily made its way to us, I started to give the address as Baker Street. The reality of the situation made itself quite clear.

_You no longer live at Baker Street, you old goat. _I closed my mouth. Holmes and I regarded each other, myself in perplexity and he in a strange patience the cabbie obviously did not possess.

"Well, and what's it gonna be, gents? Ain't got all day."

"Perhaps," Holmes said in an oddly even voice, "perhaps, doctor, you would be good enough to stay at Baker Street with me for a few days."

I hesitated as two very wet blue eyes turned to me, pleading. "I don't think that would be quite appropriate. Josh and I should probably return to Wimpole Street. I mean, home."

My son let out a yell that nearly spooked the poor horse to the devil. "No! No! I won't go with you! I'm going with Uncle!"

I was so shocked I reeled backward. I never would have dared to speak to my own father in such a manner. It would have meant one hell of a lashing. But before I could reprimand him, Holmes had put on his sternest expression. "Be still, boy," he said firmly. "There is no need to scream like a banshee. Now, stand here by the cab and don't move!"

Amazingly, he obeyed in the instant he was set on his feet, standing still and wiping his tears onto his sleeve. "Watson, a word, if you please." He grabbed my arm roughly and led me a few feet away where we would not be overheard. Even so, he spoke directly into my ear in little more than a hiss. "Now is not the time for misplaced manias on your part"—

"Misplaced manias!"

"Mrs. Hudson is _dead_." He gripped me tighter. "Right now, we are the only people who are able to do anything for her. Her body is lying, unclaimed, in the morgue, even as we speak."

"I—well—yes, I suppose it is." I hadn't really thought about that.

"There are letters and telegrams that must be sent, undertakers to see, arrangements to set forth, not to mention the fact that we have no idea what John Sherlock may have been exposed to."

"What?" I glanced back at his small shape. "How do you mean?"

"For God's sake, man! No doubt he saw her dying in front of him. And we were not there. He had no one."

I swallowed, unable to look at him any longer, remembering. Remembering that Phillipa Holmes had died in front of her brother. And now something similar had happened to my own child. "Bloody Hell," I mumbled, rubbing my eyes. "Yes, yes, of course you're right. As usual. We will come to Baker Street with you. At least until—until—the funeral."

XXX

There was no time for rest over the next day or so, let alone worries or 'manias.' The boy, after his outburst, refused to speak, even to Holmes. I was bewildered what to do, my head already spinning from the sudden shock.

To begin with, I was forced with the unworthy realization of how little I really knew of Martha Hudson. She had cooked, cleaned and dare I say cared for us for sixteen years and I had to madly sort through carefully preserved papers and letters trying to find the names of friends and relations. Holmes, of course, who remembers every fact he is exposed to, was more helpful and immediately procured the name of Judith Turner. She had briefly kept the flat for her sister when Mrs. Hudson had left to care for her dying son. She lived in Surrey and a telegram was immediately dispatched to her.

"I certainly hope she will know who else we should contact," I said to Holmes late the next night, as we sat in the sitting room as we had a thousand times before. "I'm embarrassed to say I don't even know which of her children are alive."

He snorted, holding up a battered Bible. "You forget the obvious. According to this, of her four sons, only Andrew, named for his father and the eldest son and Robert Hudson, the third son, are still of this world. The second boy, Seamus, died in '88—surely you remember that? And the youngest son was called Ian. His date of death is listed as June of '77, when he was all of twenty years."

Holmes paused for a moment, and it seemed as though he were watching me without looking at my person. "Surely this Andrew Hudson will be able to get in contact with his daughter, Julia," he said. There was an address for him among our landlady's papers."

"Julia?" I exclaimed, sitting up a little straighter.

"Yes. I'm afraid I could find no address for the young vagabond." He rose to slowly make his way over to the gasogene. "It is probable that she is still roaming about the country with some acting troupe."

Of course, later I realised that he had brought her up merely to gage my reaction and I was certain that he had put no mighty deduction into searching her out. Right then, however, I was struck completely dumb—partly from the fact that I had nearly forgotten the charming Miss Hudson. And partly from the guilt that remembering her naturally accompanied. I would not deny it, now at least, that in my desire for her I behaved boorishly with Holmes.

"I…I had forgotten Julia, I mean Miss Hudson," said I, accepting a second whisky from Holmes.

"_Did_ you?"

"Well, not forgotten. I meant merely I hadn't thought of her. She'll be devastated, no doubt."

"No doubt she'll have the comfort of many a strong shoulder to cry on." He sat hard in his armchair, spilling some of his drink, eliciting a soft French curse.

"Yes, certainly she will." I intentionally ignored the accusational tone.

We were both still for some hours after that. There was no pressure for words and perhaps the enormity of the last 48 hours pressed upon us at last. None of the three of us had dined on more than some slightly stale bread and some overripe fruit. None of the three of us had spoken to the future either. How altered it would be with Mrs. Hudson gone.

Any decisions, any new plans or changes that I may have been contemplating, whether consciously or otherwise had become garbled, scattered like so much dust upon a stiff breeze. I could only manage one sensible thought among the many that gnawed at me: Julia.

XXX

Early the next morning, after a sleepless night, Mrs. Judith Turner arrived to take charge. She was a kind-faced woman, thin and leathery, and much to my relief immediately began to put things right in the kitchen. The delicious smell of fresh porridge, fried potatoes and ham was enough to ingratiate the lady to me, as I was starving. We had met, of course, many years previous, as Holmes said, when she had briefly replaced Mrs. Hudson, having returned home to care for one of her sons who eventually succumbed to consumption. She smiled warmly, laying the breakfast tray in front of me, as I offered her both my thanks and condolences.

"Martha has gone to her home, gone to her Andrew and her wee 'uns. I'm sure she'd want no tears from the likes of us, sir."

I was sure she was right, although I noticed her dabbing her eyes with her apron as she left me to my solitary meal. Neither Holmes nor Josh had risen yet. Nor still had by the time I was finished. Not wanting to bother either or them, I dressed quietly and thought to check on my flat, it having been virtually abandoned for nearly a month now.

Having found that everything was as it should be, and wanting to avoid Askew, I purposely did not check in with my practise. I was ill-equipped to deal with him at the moment.

_Julia._

Her face, which had lain dormant in my mind for the six months since our first and only meeting, was beginning to return. As I slowly walked back toward Baker Street, I allowed my mind to remember: the beautiful skin and the auburn hair. Lovely blue eyes. I had always been enraptured by blue eyes. The easy manner and charming grace. Surely anyone could have seen how easily we had taken to one another. And yet…

What the deuce was I doing? She was still practically a child, could not have been more than one and twenty and I was, well…quite old enough to both know better and to be her father. In addition to that, what the devil made me think she would not have gained some success as an actress? She would surely not be staying long in London and in a few days she would go off and I would probably see her infrequently if ever. And then, of course, there was Holmes…

Not to mention Josh, who may never speak to me again.

I called to both of them as I was home, but there was no answer. The door to the sitting room was slightly ajar and just as I was about to open it, I heard voices. I froze to listen.

"I do wish you would speak to me," Holmes was saying. I inched closer to the door so that I could see them. Josh sat in my chair, legs hugged to his chest, chin rested on knees. His face was hidden from me by one arm. He muttered something; I could not understand him. Both of them were still in their pyjamas.

Holmes sat across as he often did with me in his own well-worn wicker seat. He was surprisingly not smoking, a sure sign that he was concerned. His expression certainly seemed so. Or was it? Perhaps merely curiosity. The eyebrows were knit, the pale eyes slightly narrowed in study. The lips were twisted, as arrogant as ever, as was the damn stubborn chin.

But the voice. The voice was calm. Gentle, even.

"Josh, my dear boy, there have never been any secrets between us. Have there? I only wish to help you."

My hand slipped slightly from the molding. Three years ago I never would have believed it possible for Sherlock Holmes to speak so…_kindly_.

The boy raised his head. His cheeks and eyes flushed pink and his nose dripped slightly. "No secrets, Uncle."

Holmes handed him his handkerchief. "Tell then. You would be amazed what confession does for the soul."

_Not confession, Holmes. _I felt my eyes close.

Josh had blown his nose and flopped his head against the back of the chair, wet eyes settling on the ceiling. I have never seen such a put-upon look by a child.

"We were in the kitchen," he began, his voice husky with crying. "She was making a pie. A _lemon _pie. And it smelled quite lovely. But Mrs. Hudson kept rubbing her head. She said she felt off today and hoped you and Papa might be home soon so she could take to her bed for a week"—

Holmes's arm twitched closer to his chest. "She did _not _mean you were a burden." His interruption was said so completely masterfully and sudden that I knew he thought the complete opposite. Guilt pooled in my stomach.

Josh's voice raised an octave. "She fell on the floor…and she was screaming. She grabbed at her head and then stopped screaming but kept moving. There was blood on her face and ear. Blood and I…I covered my eyes and ears. I didn't wanna see her. I wished she would stop. To get up and finish making the pie."

Holmes blinked in silence for near a minute. "What then?"

"Well…it got dark. No one came. Mrs. Hudson didn't get up and I was dreadful hungry. Also, I couldn't move. My legs had frozen from not moving. I tried to get up 'cause I needed the lav. But my legs wouldn't work in time. I…had an accident."

His ears and cheeks burned red, but he kept on: "I changed my clothes and went out. I knew Papa's friend, Dr. Askew, might come if I could find him. I wanted him to fetch Papa so he could make Mrs. Hudson better."

"I found him as he was latching the bolt at the consulting room and asked him to see Mrs. Hudson. He asked wasn't I Watson's son? I said, yes, I was and that Mrs. Hudson was sick. I said she had blood on her and I waited too long…"

"I knew that I should have came earlier, but I didn't tell him 'cause I thought he might hit me. He asked was Papa back yet and I said no. He came and we went…she was still there and he asked how long she was dead…"

He paused to gulp and his words began to run together and he seemed very child-like.

"He was very angry with me and shouting. He said I was to go to my room and stay there until he figured out what should be done with me. I guess he figured I should be taken arrested since I killed Mrs. Hudson"-

"You certainly did not kill her! Good God, you certainly did not!" Shaking his head, Holmes reached out and grasped the boy upon his shoulders. His eyes were wild with tremulous emotion. "Quite the curious strain that seems to run from father to son to make each think of themselves as the purveyor of deaths they could have no more prevented than they could have the sun from shining!"

He sighed deeply, seizing the boy and placing him on his lap, a long arm wrapped around him protectively. "And as for myself, the very catalyst of another's untimely demise, I have spent the better part of my years convinced of the very opposite."

Purposively, I disallowed his words to make any sort of impact in my mind.

"So how came James Parks into this business? Ah, never mind! Surely he was the police surgeon assigned to remove the body and investigate the cause of death. How long did that reprobate Askew leave you alone?"

Josh shrugged. "It seemed very long. I was so very hungry, but I didn't dare make him angrier by asking for supper. So I went to sleep. I could hear men downstairs shouting sometimes. There was furniture moving, too, I think. I wondered if maybe no one would come for me. Ever."

I felt as though someone had given me a stiff blow to the gut.

"When I woke up, Mrs. Parks was there. I didn't remember her, but she said who she was and then I did. I was in her home. She was very nice and fixed me soup and bread and milk. Everyone asked me a lot if I knew where you and Papa were, but I didn't. So she sent me off with Fannie and Jimmie and their nurse, but they were strange. I didn't like them.

"And why did you not like the Parks children?" Holmes's question mirrored my thought.

"They couldn't read. And they hit me. And each other. Sometimes their nurse. Once Fannie threw a book at me."

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "What did you do?"

"I said that no man would ever marry her 'cause she was quite mean."

"Ha! How true!"

"Uncle?"

"Yes?"

"Did you and Papa come back just because of Mrs. Hudson?"

I thought I saw Holmes's eyes narrow. But I could have been wrong. "What are you really asking, lad?"

He hesitated, his throat contracting the last of the sobs. "Well, I thought…maybe you were never coming back. Maybe you were leaving me here forever."

"Quite the extreme reaction." Holmes' voice was stern, then softer. "Yet one can hardly blame you for it. Surely you don't think your father would abandon you?"

He shrugged, merely shrugged, as if the question of whether or not he felt abandoned was no more important than a choice of ice cream flavour. "I suppose not," he eventually concluded.

"I never would. Josh." I could no longer remain an eavesdropper. As I stepped into the room, he turned his wet face to me. His mouth opened slightly. I felt like my feet were nailed to the floor. Neither of us moved.

"Josh"—my voice was growing hoarse—"Please."

He rose to his feet, taking a step toward me. But one hand remained on Holmes's knee. I could hardly bear to weep before my own child—to show such weakness, but in the end, I failed and broke completely down. "I am sorry, son. So very sorry." He suddenly was in my arms. I hadn't seen him move. He gripped my neck as he had his Godfather's the other day, squeezing the life out of me. I did not mind.

XXX

When I at last stopped blubbering like a fool, I saw Holmes standing by his chair. Smiling for the first time in days. Maybe weeks.

The day before the funeral, I left Baker Street to meet Julia Hudson's train at Victoria. In response to my asking if he wished to accompany me, I received a hard stare from Holmes. Josh, however, begged to come along and I could not refuse him. It was the first time in recent memory he chose my company over his Godfather's.

Being now nearly April, the weather had taken a favourable turn, and we were content to walk. The boy trotted along beside me, quiet, his hands in his pockets. He kept staring at the sky.

"What are you looking for? Birds?"

He shook his head. "Do you think Mrs. Hudson is in Heaven? With Mama and my baby sister?

"Of course I do."

His eyes narrowed at once and he looked very much like someone familiar. "But how do you know that Heaven is a real place? Perhaps it is only imagery."

"I don't believe it is."

"You can't know for certain."

"Well, I suppose that is true enough. But I _do _know that both your mother and Martha Hudson were fine women, ladies of the highest caliber and if Heaven does exist, which I believe it to, than certainly they are both there, now."

He looked unconvinced even as he nodded.

"Might one ask why you so suddenly doubt Heaven's existence?" I frowned. "Did Holmes convince you otherwise?"

"Oh, no. Uncle says it does, to be sure."

I was shocked. "Really?"

"He said there are a few people too good for this world who simply have to belong to…I think he said paradise. Forever-lasting paradise. This world is too damnable for their spirits to remain on. So there must be something like Heaven…I don't know. He was saying a lot of things."

Dumbfounded, I merely nodded. I never imagined Sherlock Holmes holding an opinion such as that. Of course, in his way, it made sense. He would have to believe that his sister was in such a place. His guilt over her death (which I firmly believed fallacious) forced him to imagine her in a place better than he had made for her on Earth. Just as I had a similar need with regards to Mary.

How eerily similar we two were at times.

Josh did not force the subject again, and we chatted pleasantly about the sorts of topics a father and son should speak on: holidays away to fish, books (he was keen on Arthurian legends at the moment), football (which he knew almost nothing) and animals (which he knew a great deal).

XXX

As we reached the station, the smell of coal filled our nostrils and stung at our eyes. I was suddenly filled with strange insecurities. About six months had passed since I had seen her and I worried about what I should say or do. We had known each other all of one day. I wondered as to why I was being such a goat. _'She isn't even here to see you, you old fool. She has lost her grandmother. _I told myself this, but I didn't believe my own words. My hands were slick with sweat.

She was the first off the train and remembered me immediately. Although dressed suitably for mourning, there was a distinct cheerfulness her countenance could not hide. I saw nothing of fault in that. She could hardly help being natural vivacious. Her cheeks and eyes glowed and her hand was put into mine before I'd had a chance to speak.

"How good of you to meet me, John! You must be so distressed over Grandmama"— She paused, pressing her other hand to her mouth.

"We all are, my dear Miss Hudson." Squeezing her hand, I reached for her valise. "And I do wish that it were under better circumstances Baker Street is to be graced with your presence."

"Julia," she reminded me. "Ah, John! I cannot tell you what it means to be amongst friends once again. I've been with strangers for so many months…but of course, that is a story for a more appropriate time. Little Josh, my darling boy, you are indeed a sight for sore eyes. How have you been?"

He shuffled from foot to foot, probably in embarrassment at the "little Josh" remark. In his manliest voice, he answered, "I've been very well, ma'am. And you?"

She laughed merrily. "Such the perfect gentleman! Like father, like son, they say. But you must call me "Julia" as well. I hardly feel old enough for "ma'am" yet. And we are friends, aren't we, Josh?"

"I suppose we are." He looked curiously at her arm on mine before meeting my gaze. In an instant, he had relieved Miss Hudson of her smaller bag and scuttled off ahead of us. I wondered what that look meant.

"You must excuse him," said I, as we walked slowly into the sunshine. "He feels his oats of late. And he's had a rough patch since Mrs. Hudson's passing."

"Well, of course boys will be boys."

I offered to hail us a cab, but Julia insisted that after the long train ride she was eager to stretch her legs. The boy trotted along ahead of us, frequently stopping to wait until we had caught up and then taking off again. If I didn't know better, I would swear it was his childish way of keeping tabs on us. But I doubted that Miss Hudson noticed, so I let it go.

"It really is good to see you, John," she said after some little time. "Despite the sad circumstances. I feel as though…I am amongst friends once again."

"You are indeed. And I believe your Uncle Robert should be here this evening. No doubt you are eager to see him."

She smiled. And did not reply.

"Er..." I hurried changed the subject. "A shame your father could not make the trip with you."

The smile faded. The grip on my arm tightened. "Oh, I'm sorry, my dear. Did I say something wrong? Is your father…not well?"

She nodded slowly. "He hasn't, well, been sound for years. The curse that affects too many otherwise healthy men." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Alcohol, I mean."

I nodded, thinking of my own family. "I am sorry. I know first-hand of its evil powers. Not myself of course," I added quickly. "But both my father and brother."

It seemed to me that she was relieved to hear me say so. We spoke not again until just after turning onto Baker Street. "We _do _seem to have much in common, John."

XXX

Robert Hudson and his wife, Anne, were perfectly agreeable—rather a reserved lot but certainly polite and amiable given the circumstances. He was a blue collar man—foreman at a limestone quarry in Surrey, where Martha Hudson had spent much of her married life.

They begged off some supper to retire to their hotel, claiming fatigue. I protested that might take my room, but they wouldn't hear of it. The reality of the funeral loomed over us all.

"Well, they are certainly a devoted couple," said I, as our remaining party of Holmes, Julia, Josh and I sat down to a lovely beef Wellington.

Julia readily agreed. "They were childhood sweethearts, in fact. Auntie was the daughter of the Campbells, good friends of the Andrew Hudsons. She and Robert were quite inseparable." She carefully licked a dab of gravy from her lip.

Holmes snorted. "Perhaps they are not as devoted as they seem."

"What, Mr. Holmes?" She seemed shocked.

Josh giggled, caught my eye, and immediately shoveled some potato into his mouth.

"Forgive me, Miss Hudson. I meant only that appearances are frequently deceiving." He laid aside his fork and I knew that we were in for a long exposition. "To the detail minded logician, you see, one would take into consideration how far apart a couple sits, whether they face each other when speaking or look away, whether they touch each other on the hand or arm to show support, or even if they falsify sadness in order to garner sympathy from a mate."

"Are you suggesting"—

"Do shut-up, Watson. Also, Miss Hudson, one wonders if it is conjugal duty or true devotion that leads one partner to unquestioningly follow another, despite the danger or the fear of the unknown. How fascinating it would be indeed if one could see how a couple behaved toward each other if a vow of love, honour and obey could be laid aside. That would be a truly controlled environment, free from outside variables. If one deferred their own gain, even risked public ridicule or damnation simply because they trusted and loved one another, even to the point that they knew they were going to hurt another, then we could truly see how devoted a couple was, in fact."

Julia blinked several times. "Are you speaking from personal experience, Mr. Holmes?"

"Merely a theorem, _Miss_ Hudson. Merely a theorem."

All I could do was manage a sigh that turned into a groan. Josh glared at me.

XXX

The funeral was quiet, dignified. Just as Mrs. Hudson would have wanted. Held at St. Stephen's, a dilapidated little building in Marylebone that our landlady had occasionally attended.

"She was not regular," Julia was telling me as we waited for the service to begin. She had been inseparable from me all that day. "Grandmama had rather…oh, how does one say such a thing about the dead? 'Lost her faith,' I suppose is the polite term? She had, at least somewhat."

"One can hardly blame her. Burying a husband and two children before her"—

"Three, actually."

"Three?"

She nodded her quivering little chin. "There was a daughter in the family. Between Da and Uncle Seamus. Lillian, her name was. She died of influenza at the age of three."

"How tragic." I shook my head. "The poor woman."

"And no wonder she so fancied your little son as much as she did. Blond and blue-eyed, just like her Lillian. The only in the family not red-headed, she once told me. She _was _partial to Josh, you know."

"Yes. I do know." I looked over at the boy, sitting across the pew from us. He was standing stoically next to his godfather, hands clasped behind his back. He was trying desperately to match his elder's cold expression. He looked older than his five and one half years. Perhaps it was the black suit. _The eyes_, I thought, although not with a clue as to what that meant. He looked up and said something quietly to Holmes who gave him a curt nod before turning in my general direction. I avoided eye-contact. I knew he detested funerals. Detested churches, for that matter. And more than likely detested the time I was spending with Julia. Neglecting him, I suppose.

Or was that it at all? It was unlike the man not to intimate when he desired my company, albeit without coming right out and admitting he needed me. His reticence these last several days might not be jealousy. Melancholy? He _was _fond of Martha Hudson; no one would deny that. Perhaps sadness that now we were back in civilisation, he knew our rather odd arrangement would continue. I sighed heavily. He was too complex a puzzle to solve.

Julia patted my hand affectionately. "I know, John. How impossible it seems that she is gone."

Nodding, I was a little ashamed at my thoughts. _Today is not supposed to be about Sherlock Holmes. _I could not resist watching him though.

The parish priest was finishing his dissertation on the fickle nature of life and death, how the good shall be rewarded and the sinful…well, surely one hears sermons of this kind dozens of time. I confess I barely listened to his words.

Robert Hudson, Holmes, myself and three other men I later learned were the sons of Judith Turner, and therefore Martha Hudson's nephews, moved to take our places as pallbearers, carrying our landlady to the carriage that would ride her to her final resting place. Holmes glanced at me briefly, his expression seeming to indicate he wanted to say something, but decorum forced his silence. We marched to the weary chords of an ancient organ outside, side-by-side.

XXX

The burial went by very fast, as memory serves. I had a splinting headache, feeling the burden the casket had placed on my various injuries. Poor Julia was beside herself, weeping into a handkerchief, the other hand on my arm for support, which I freely gave. How could I not? The poor lamb was so alone in the world.

I managed to avoid watching Holmes by diverting all of my time to Julia, but towards the end, as the coffin was being lowered into the ground, I could resist no longer. His eyes were dry, however downcast and stormy. The boy was another story, though, silent streams cascading down pudgy cheeks. But like a little soldier, he refused to make a spectacle. It occurred to me that perhaps I should not have allowed him to come. I'd forgotten his youth.

Perhaps that should act as my excuse, then, to explain why I offered him no words of comfort. Perhaps I thought he didn't really need me, as clearly he had gotten by several times without me. Whatever excuse I allowed myself, it was once again Holmes who saved the day.

He thumped a hand down on my son's shoulder, muttering something out of the corner of his mouth. Josh sloppily ran his shirt sleeves over his eyes and moved closer to his uncle. His arm remained on my son for some minutes, until the last shovelful of dirt was in place and she was truly gone from this world.

I silently led Julia away as Holmes led John Sherlock. Both the latter were bawling. None of us dared to speak.

XXX

The following day, I took Miss Hudson for a walk in Regent's Park. Though Josh begged to come along, I shrugged him off onto Holmes who had a strange, woeful look about him as if he dreaded being left alone.

"You might occupy his time until he has a case," I told the boy.

He looked at me suspiciously. "But he already has cases. Look." Sure enough, there was more than one telegram jack-knifed to the fireplace ledge.

"Well, I suppose none interest him then. No matter. One surely will come along he that he will not be able to resist." I swatted him on the bum, shooing him away before he could tell me anything I didn't wish to know.

XXX

The weather had warmed as March came to an end, despite the idiom that it roars out like a lion. I was pleased to switch from the heavy black broadcloth suit to a light seersucker and felt quite at home with the beautiful Julia Hudson on my arm in public. It was a freedom I could never know with Sherlock Holmes.

We chatted lightly, easily, avoiding the emotional issues we'd been subjected to yesterday and concentrating on our histories.

"Your father raised you in Aviemore?" I asked as we circled the Outer Circle. "A beautiful town. I had been through there, in my college days. On holiday. On my way to Inverness."

"We moved a great deal, Da and I. He was restless. A relic of his days in the Army. Always he was looking for a new start, a fresh beginning. And always, no matter how promising the circumstances seemed, it was the bottle that ended his prospects."

"He never really was the same after Mama died," she continued. "And he, a proud military man, hoped for a son to mold into a more successful version of himself. Oh, I don't presume to say he does not love me. I know he does, in his way. He chose to raise me himself, rather than send me to Grandmama or some other relation. But I know he always felt a hint of sadness that I wasn't a son."

For a moment there was silence and I wondered if, in telling me this, she was comparing me to her father. Perhaps even _saw _me as a father figure. _Rubbish. That's completely unworthy. It must be._

"How happy you must be with your son," she was continuing. "It must have made the loss of your wife slightly more bearable to know that you have a namesake."

I had never thought of Mary's death in that way. "I don't…well…I would have been quite happy with a daughter." I cleared my throat. "In fact, my wife had just given birth to a girl when she died."

"She had?" My arm was squeezed tighter. "Oh, John! I am so sorry."

"As am I. Mary had had…difficulties in her maternal condition. Josh's was terrible for her, and both mother and babe nearly died. I had told her we shouldn't"—I stopped. "But she insisted. She wanted more children."

"Quite brave of her. To risk so much. I am sure you loved her very much."

"Indeed."

We walked in silence until we reached a bench near Primrose Hill upon which we sat to rest a minute. Beautiful bushes of pink roses grew all around our seat, and I was compelled to pick one for my companion. "I have always thought roses the loveliest of flowers," said I, as I handed it to her.

"Oh, yes." She innocently pecked my cheek. "Although I am passionately fond of lilies as well. Particularly Oriental Lilies. Papa and I grew them at home. Rather successfully I might add."

"Well, I shall have to remember that."

That day, I felt as though I was perhaps only twenty-one myself. I convinced myself I was.

_The following scene, written by John S. (Josh) Watson was added to the original text at a later date_

_Mycroft Holmes sat in the Stranger's Room surrounded by a large tea service. Indeed, he rarely entered his club this time of day without some sort of nourishment. And the Diogenes Club offered a particularly good tea. As one of the founding members, he had insisted on it._

_He was just about to enjoy a particularly lovely looking raisin scone when his brother entered the room. Entered as nonchalantly as if he had been doing it every day of his life. Mycroft was not surprised, though. Indeed, nothing Sherlock did surprised him. Seeing him was a bit…perhaps disconcerting was the appropriate word. Made more so by the fact that there was some sort of infant with him._

_Mycroft Holmes had little experience with children. He preferred them in schools, in prams, anywhere that was away from him. His massive face studied his brother's gaunt one. _He has been ill. That damned cocaine, I expect. And the infant is no doubt the property of the good doctor. If only it were not true that love saw with the heart and not the mind. _He had read that sometime, somewhere. Shakespeare, more than likely. _

_"Well, Sherlock. I suppose you are not dead then, after all. I thought the only way you would return to Cornwall would be over your dead body. But here it is, still intact."_

_"As is yours, amazingly._

_He was not, apparently, in the mood for ill __humour__. Mycroft chortled. It wasn't that he enjoyed seeing his brother suffer. Of course that was not it. He had encouraged him, after all, against his better judgment and against the laws of the country he had dedicated himself to. He took no joy in seeing his only brother suffering. But he could not say that he hadn't expected this. He had. And he knew Sherlock had as well. The weight of all and his last hope.__3__ "Tea?" He offered. "And you must sit, to be sure. What is this?" He waved his hand in the direction of the boy._

_He brother poured some tea, added a liberal amount of sugar and handed it to his companion. "My conscience. Also my Godson. Watson, junior."_

_"Hmm." Mycroft studied the boy, slightly amused that someone would make a Holmes Godfather to their only child. Particularly given that he was not thought alive at the time to do his duty toward it. A telling feature. Surely Sherlock would have noted how telling. Of course he would. "I suppose it is of some interest to you." His attention returned to the scone._

_"Uncle says that you're his brother and that you're smarter even than he is."_

_"Oh, it talks, does it? Well, youngster, if that is what…_Uncle _says then it must be so."_

_Sherlock snorted. "You are being quite a stupid ass."_

_"'Twas you who invaded on my own sanctuary."_

_"Surely you see why."_

_"Do I?" He shoved the last bit of sweet into his wide, toad-like mouth._

_"Of course."_

Because the love of your life has decided he does not prefer a masculine touch after all. Only 'the love of his life'—no, that would not do. Not do at all. The only person whose presence he can tolerate for longer than a few minutes? _Mycroft smirks. The truth was no doubt somewhere between the two. "Well, perhaps we should ask the conscience. Tell me, boy, what do you think?"_

_But the boy is afraid to offer an opinion. His Uncle's brother is not kind, not like his Godfather at all. He thinks he may be sat on or eaten with the same relish that the huge man destroyed that scone. _

_"Go on, Josh." His Uncle's expression remains stony, but his tone is encouraging._

_"I think," the boy says, "that you work near by to here. Nearer than where you live. I can tell because you sleep in the chair here. And the wicker made that mark on your neck. If you lived near to where you worked, you would go there to nap. Not here."_

_Mycroft snorts. His brother grins._

_"And you don't have a wife."_

_"Why? Because you see no ring?"_

_Josh shakes his head. "Your collar is crooked in the back. My papa's was always like that and my mama would fix it for him. If you had a wife, she would fix your collar, too."_

_"Hardly scientific," Mycroft growls._

_"Also, your papa liked you more than Uncle."_

_The brothers both stared. "One can hardly argue with that," said Sherlock._

_But Mycroft waves it away. "Surely he sees that I have our father's watch. The fact that I am elder to you and therefore entitled is lost on him."_

_"But you have his ring, too." The boy pointed to the signet ring worn on the man's smallest finger. "It is an old ring and even though you are old, I think it was your father's. And Uncle does not have anything from him."_

_Sherlock was laughing now. _

_"Well," said Mycroft. "You might have seen that I am employed by the government, suffer from gout and drink too much Bordeaux or numerous other deductions far more useful than the obvious that I am lazy and without a wife.. But satisfactory for a child still in his infancy, I suppose."_

_"I am five. Nearing six," the boy said wryly. "I am _not _an infant."_

_"Here, have a tart." He pushed the large silver platter towards him. To his brother, he added, "So I see you have found a pet project to occupy your mind. When it is not pining away for"—_

_Sherlock silenced him with one look._

_"You mean it doesn't know?"_

_"Per the wishes of his father."_

_Mycroft rubbed one of his chins, watching as the child shoveled some barm brak into his mouth. He chewed suspiciously, but his eyes were completely alert. He could almost see his ears straining so as to not miss a single word the adults were saying. It was an expression quite familiar to the man. He was reminded of his younger brother. "I think he already knows."_

_His brother nodded. "Very probably."_

_"Hm! Then what would your gallant doctor say?"_

_"Papa is going to marry Julia Hudson."_

_John Sherlock said the statement so exact, so obvious that Mycroft Holmes nearly choked on his tea. Somehow the statement shocked him. A foolish error—why else the misery, the cocaine, the child's presence? If all of this and the fact that he was here, then it surely was rather hopeless. Well, it should have been obvious. He should have deduced it. He wrote it off to the distracting presence of the child._

_"Is that so, Sherlock?"_

_His brother nodded, his face garnishing an exhausted look. "The first of September at St. Michael's. I'm to be"—he smirked—"best man. For the second time, I shall stand next to him and offer my congratulations as he concedes to societal norms."_

He always was a deuced good actor. _"As he leaves you, you mean."_

_"That's so." He smiled his whip-fast grin and patted his godson's head. "But he'll be back. He is the one fixed point in a changing age. In the end, he always comes back to me."_

1 A stroke

2 As in "The Dying Detective" of course

3" On whom we send, the weight of all and our last hope relies". Paradise Lost


	33. Chapter 33

A/N: So um, how is everyone? Married with kids yet? Well, lets see if I can finish this before we all start collecting Social Security!

_The following two letters are added at a later date by John S. (Josh) Watson:_

_Ramwar Preparatory School_

_Darkmeade__ Hill_

_Tavistock_

_Devon_

_January 10, 1902_

_Dear Uncle,_

_I set out to write that I arrived well and the train was exceptional jolly. We had to clear out twice do to ice and once we nearly skipped the track and several ladies and little fellows were rather afraid. But I thought it was all good fun. The announcement of prizes for the__ Michelmas__ term is set out next week and I am cocksure of the Literature prize and perhaps even the essay prize but not the__ maths__ prize. I also spoke to the Chemistry master whose name is Gagnon and mentioned your name as you said to do. He was much excited at hearing your name and did not believe that I really was your godson and anyway he said I still couldn't start Advanced Sciences until I go to Senior which I will still do a year early. So I guess that's all right. We are studying Julius Caesar, also._

_And so did you know that Papa told me Julia is to have a baby brother or sister for me in the summer? He told me this on Christmas Day and he was quite all over about it. I thought I might be happy to have a brother and sister but I am still mad all the same. __I know that you said I should not be cross with him but I still think that we were better when it was he and you and I all together in Baker street. __And I think that Julia does not much like me. When it is just she and I together she doesn't much speak to me. I will try to be a better man as you told me I should but it is so hard and some times I wish I could just leave and run very far and never come back._

_I must leave this now as the Headmaster is yelling for lights out and I am tired with such a letter as this is._

_Please write back to me and tell me how I should act._

_Your Godson,_

_Josh Watson_

_-x-  
_

_221 B Baker Street_

_London_

_NW1_

_January 22, 1902_

_My Dear John Sherlock,_

_I was much relieved upon recipient of your latest correspondence as I was uneasy about the weather the day you departed. Such a degree of ice and lack of degree of temperature have not cursed our fair city in a decade according to my old friend, Whitaker's. __'Jolly' as you may think a train skipping the track is, you would be hard-pressed to imagine a mangled life without the use of your limbs._

_I offer you my sincere congratulations on the news of your prizes. You may think it an inconsequential event in an otherwise consequential life, but you will find that when you reach an age of retrospect, it shall be the little things that fill your mind with revelry._

_As for this chemistry master, I doubt from your description that he is the master of much. A man who is so rigid with his rules can be sure that life will break him sooner rather than later. But never mind, we shall continue our lessons on your holidays and spare the unyielding Master Gagnon a pupil he is ill-fit to deal with._

_As you say, you are beginning 'Julius Caesar.' If you mean the man, I suggest you look up__ Plutarchus__. If the drama, than the same. No one knew our good Roman countryman better, not even the Bard himself. Although the Globe is set to begin a new adaptation next fall. Perhaps you would care to attend? _

_And now to the crux of the problem. You plead the Devil's advocate, my dear boy. You look about and you see this complicated maze where at every centre awaits a minotaur. Yet you cannot possibly imagine what the horns, the hoof and the tail represent. Before your birth, I was in Paris working for the French police on a trite little matter involving a certain professor who your father can tell you much about. Whilst there, I encountered Ramey's marble statue of Theseus engaging the Minotaur. Because of the art that flows in my veins, the memory of many a masterpiece occasionally haunt my waking moments. I see you now, dear boy, in that angry Greek holding the club, beating his enemy to submission. But it is not the life I would wish for you. You are the product of gentle breeding by two gentle people and your nature should keep you out of Dante's seventh circle. _

_That shall have to be another reference you must look up. It is better to keep busy. It keeps the mind away from less nobler pursuits. _

_I know I have not provided many answers for you, and for that I offer my apologies. I hope someday that you may know why. But I will tell you this much—you must forgive your father. He has done what he thinks best, and it may yet prove to be that he is right. _

_Very likely he is._

_And now, I shall end this massive tome before it costs me an extra stamp at the post. Your next note must not be so serious. You must write of your observations of the masters and pupils and whatever else is light-hearted and appropriate for a lad just reaching the end of his first decade. Life will make you serious enough before long._

_I remain, as always, _

_Very truly yours,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

_-x-  
_

It was the dawn of a new century. When I pause now, I wonder at the exuberance our country was filled with. The prosperity. The power. We, like Sherlock Holmes himself, were quite at the pinnacle of supremacy in the years before the century ended. But as we lost our beloved Mother1 before this new age could barely take its first breathes, I felt a singular impression that both were never to regain their full strength again.

And, in a matter of speaking, I was right.

-x-

It is hard to say what exactly I felt in those years since I departed Baker Street. At the time, I thought I was all happiness. Or perhaps relief is the appropriate word. No more would I have to worry that I was the subject of malicious slander amongst my medical colleagues. No more would I have the reminder that I was daily breaking the laws of a country I, as both doctor and soldier, had sworn to uphold. No more was the constant reminder of the debilitating situation I was placing my child, myself and even Sherlock Holmes himself in.

I was a normal man again. One of the great masses with a satisfying career and a comfortable home and loving wife to return to at the day's end. Many people desire wealth and fame, I know. Never was there a man in history who so desired anonymity as myself at that time.

My actions over those first years of the new century fill my mind constantly. The first thought I always have when I think on it is the words that I was to read some years later, in a story penned by Holmes. He rarely took up his pen to disclose his own adventures, much as he was partial to ridiculing me that when he did in his 'declining' years, they would be of far more use to logicians of the future and not mindless romantics. But the one time he did put pen to paper, I think he did more to disclose the fact of the first two paragraphs of that tale than anything else. Particularly, the words: 'The good Watson had at the time deserted me for a wife, the only selfish action which I can recall in our association. I was alone.2'

Because I know longer have him with me, there are only his words left to ponder— 'deserted me' and 'selfish action' and 'I was alone.' And inevitably when I do, my heart is stabbed with a thick blade of guilt. I cannot say whether or not he intended me to feel as such, though I think not. It was more his way of expressing how much he cared. It was as much as he could admit to the public that read and thrilled at every word he spoke and many he did not. The rest would be to me. But I get ahead of myself.

-x-

My wife and I had taken up residence in the west of the city, just within the boundaries of Chelsea. It was fashionable and with a price tag that greatly taxed my pocket book, but Julia had fallen instantly in love with it. And I did have to admit, having such rooms to call my own greatly improved my standing in the medical community. I could see it on the impressive raises of the eyebrow that inevitably followed a first supper invite. And when I followed it with a most beautiful wife to greet them at the door, I've no doubt many a Harley Street man thought much of Doctor John Watson in those days. James Parks, my old partner, for example, with whom I had resumed a somewhat casual friendship, could not stop pounding me on the shoulder the night I invited he and his wife to dine with us. It was almost as if we two shared some pathetic little secret.

Julia's and my happiness culminated in the summer of '02, when our first child was due to be born. She had told me during Josh's Christmas holiday and I was overjoyed with pride and happiness. No man cannot deny how virile and masculine he feels when his wife tells him he has created life within her. That one sensation kept my heart pumping full of adrenaline and my mind delightfully occupied for months. Her first reaction was to kiss me full on the mouth (something Mary never felt comfortable doing in the presence of anyone) and to exclaim, "Oh, John! How fat I shall get now!"

"Indeed you shall, my dear!" I returned the kiss whole heartedly.

Josh picked at a piece of gift wrap lying abandoned near our Christmas tree. His face showed a half smile. "Congratulations, Papa. And you, too, Julia."

I motioned him over. "Give your step-mother a kiss."

He did and she held his chubby face in her hands. "Josh, darling, you are going to be a brilliant big brother."

He nodded with a modicum of fake exuberance. For a moment, I felt like I had my family complete again. Well, my _public _family at any rate.

-x-

I heard less and less from Sherlock Holmes as the new century began, so that by the time my wife was quite along in her condition, I didn't even know if he was aware that I was to have another child. I didn't know what to tell him. Surely Josh had, but I could hardly imagine his reaction. Probably he would take the news in the same logical and composed manner he had reacted when I told him I was re-marrying.

"Marriage will bring you happiness?" He had asked, hands folded behind his back, eyes fixed on his own reflection in the window towering above our city. His watch caught the glint of the glass and its silver reflection danced.

"Yes. Yes, I hope it shall. It will, I mean."

A nod. "I will not stand in your way."

_We do not cease feeling on demand, _he had told me once. No. No, indeed we do not. "Thank you, Holmes."

He held up a single hand. "If you would be so kind as to leave me now, doctor."

"Er…of course."

I could not look at him. But I assumed he remained where he was, back to me, completely reposed and seemingly without emotion. I let out a heavy breath. And closed the door behind me.

-x-

That memorable June began when my son arrived home for the summer holiday. I recall that Josh was first off the train, and immediately swung his school bag to his shoulder and looked around manfully as if the entire crowd of holiday makers was there personally to greet him. The very act of it made me grin in spite of myself. He so desperately wanted to be taken as a bigger, older fellow than was the case in those days. But I suppose that's how most children in his place felt. I have a very clear memory of that day—the lad in his dark gray Eton coat and short pants, his curls cut, but yet hanging down into a still infantile face. I have no photographs of him at this age and would not until a class set done when he was at Harrow around fourteen. Yet even with that framed picture in my hand I can better remember him at ten than any other age. He was at the precipice of actualisation at that tender age. No longer the wide-eyed precocious toddler and not yet the indomitable teen-ager he was to become.

He saw me and gave a jerk of his hand, motioning to the porter which was his trunk. He gave me a short hug when I approached but seemed embarrassed to offer anything more. Just last Christmas I had been able to coax a kiss out of him, but he was quite a man of ten and one half now (going on thirty in his own mind) and was beyond all such filial attachments.

"'Lo, Papa." He greeted me. "You didn't have to meet me. I could have got a cab."

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course I'm going to meet you."

He shrugged indifferently as if to say that it was my own time to waste. "How is…uh…Julia?"

"Fat as a pumpkin." I smiled to myself. "The heat is aggravating her and I have insisted on complete rest. She stays in the parlour and her own bedroom with very few visitors. I expect she shall deliver in about a week or so and be all the happier for it."

The thought evidently embarrassed the boy slightly, for his cheeks acquired colour and he shifted his sack awkwardly. "I suppose I shall be here then. When it happens."

"I'll send you over to Holmes when the time comes."

His mouth twitched upward. "How is Uncle?"

"Well. I mean, I cannot be sure…completely. I saw him…I saw him a month…no, it was more than a month…"

Josh glanced at me so viciously I had to look away and motion for a hansom idling across the street. A thick stench of heat radiated off the cobblestone as the horse clomped closer. I cleared my throat. "He's fine, Josh. I'm sure of it."

The driver swooped down to lend a hand with the trunk. I could feel the leather strap slipping in my sweating palm. The sun was making pools of perspiration in my eyes. "You would know if you were still there."

I thought I heard my ten-year old child say this. But I was busy mopping at my face with a handkerchief and could have misheard. I presume this is one of the reasons I have such a solid memory of my son at this age.

-x-

Julia was directing our house maid in the hanging of some curtains when we arrived home. She lay across the settee, the front of her dressing gown bulging onto a throw pillow. She still insisted on her toilet being perfect each day, but she rarely bothered with a complete dressing this last month. The heat was intense and I would take no risks to her health as her pregnancy neared its completion. "_John, you act as though this immense balloon will burst at the slightest pressure!" _She teased me constantly. And no matter how delicate I tried to be, there was constant moodiness about her weight.

"I certainly hope not, my dear." I would reach down to feel the life within her quivering and moving.

But Julia seemed only impatient to have it over with. She pried my fingers away. "I don't know how you can bear to touch such an immense stomach. It is quite disgusting."

"Julia! Really…there is nothing more attractive to a man than the mother of his child."

She laughed. "Well, there is nothing _less _attractive to a woman than losing her figure!"

But of course I had seen enough women with child to know that each reacted differently. And she was young. It was natural for a young woman to want to look and feel beautiful. Certainly if all went according to plan she would forget all about gaining weight and losing her figure as soon as she saw her baby son or daughter. How could she not!

"Josh, darling," she called out as we stepped in the room. "How I've missed you! Come and give me a kiss."

The boy frowned but did as he was told with no directive necessary from me. "How are you, Julia? You look well." His tone was nearly mechanical but my wife rarely noticed such things.

"I look like a horse you mean! A great, fat horse." She sighed and pinched his arm. "Remember this when you are grown and married. Always remember what we woman sacrifice for you men."

"Well, you don't look…_too_ much like a horse, Julia."

"Oh, not _too _much, is it?" She sighed and shifted her abdomen into a more comfortable position.

I bent to kiss her lips, but she turned at the last second and I ended up with a mouthful of ear. "How are you, my dear? Can I get you anything?"

"No, no…you're perspiring as it is. It must be an absolute inferno out there. Peggy,"—she turned to our maid, still struggling with a collapsed curtain rod—"bring some lemonade for us, please. And some Battenberg3 as well."

"I'm not hungry. Can I be excused?"

I glanced at my son fidgeting closer to the door. It was a lie; like his father, the boy was always hungry, and there was not a type of cake on this good Earth that did not meet with his approval. Although admittedly our (thankfully inexpensive and half-deaf) cook palled in comparison with dear, greatly missed Mrs. Hudson. "You can have a drink before you abandon us to whatever noxious pursuits you are planning"— He plopped obnoxiously into an armchair, a trying sigh escaping from his mouth—

"And after supper you might run 'round to Baker Street and let Holmes know you've come. I'm sure he's eager to see you."

I thought that just _might _elicit a smile. And I was correct. He practically leapt over the back of the chair.

-x-

The heat did not dissipate over the next several days. If anything, it was worse. London was like Hades, and my wife its master, prodding me with a pitchfork every opportunity I took to spend time with her. Of course, as a medical man, I realised her hormones and emotions were both off the scale and she was not to blame, still I could not help but feel as though I should leave her until I was needed. And so, as I planned to take a month or so holiday after the birth, I busied myself with my practise from morning to night, hardly taking one break.

As for John Sherlock, he was up at first light when the air was nearly tolerable, breakfasted on hunks of dry bread, cold tea and whatever his spending money could afford him, and spent the days traipsing about Baker Street. On the days when his Godfather was engaged, he either hung about the house mopping, or, more likely, at the library or the British Museum. There were a number of lads about his age in our area, many of whom I was familiar with, but when I suggested he might invite one or two of them over he gave me a look that suggested the word 'play' was no longer in his vocabulary.

"I can't waste my holiday playing football," he would mumble, flipping through some massive text called _Physiological Chemistry_. "Uncle needs my assistance."

And so that ended my interference in his latent childhood.

-x-

Readers of my adventures of my late friend may recall a curious and somewhat singular case that I included in my last collection that is referred to as "The Adventure of the Three Garridebs." The case itself was not particularly proactive, but there were some events that made it memorable enough for me to include: these being the fourth (and last) bullet I would take and the clue I released to the more human side of Sherlock Holmes.

As I wished not for the public to be cognisant of my children's existence for the sack of their own privacy, I recall that I made some mention of Holmes refusing a knighthood as the affair that allowed me to stick with certainty to the date that this case occurred. In truth, although Holmes did once refuse a knighthood, it occurred much earlier in his career, when our dear monarch was still with us. The real reason that this date was so etched into my mind was that it occurred just days before the birth of my second child.

Robert Hudson's wife admitted me with a polite smile, but there was none of the familiarity and love that would have been expected from her mother-in-law. Even five years later, the reminder of Martha Hudson was enough to make me sigh with a heavy heart. But other than that, my old digs remained unchanged. I smelled the odour of heavy shag baked into the curtains, the lingering scent of orange glaze and fresh bread. The remains of ammonia and lemon oil on the always sterile kitchen floor. The dented umbrella stand just inside the entryway, the gilt-framed mirrors going up the steps.

I could find my way around 221 B blindfolded. No matter my personal situation, I would always feel at home here.

-x-

Holmes was leaning against the arm of the settèe, a piece of paper in his hand. Josh, standing on the furniture, was glancing over his Uncle's shoulder at it. Neither looked up when I entered the room.

"You lot are all attention, today," I mentioned, taking a reminiscing look around at what used to be my old rooms. "What is so attractive in an old piece of foolscap?"

"A whimsical little tale involving the name Garrideb," said Holmes. "Tell me, Watson, have you heard the name before?"

"No, should I have?"

"I rather doubted you would." He smiled and moved toward me to shake my hand. "It is good to see you, doctor. My godson tells me that you and your wife are all eager over the expected arrival."

"We are indeed. And speaking of your godson, is there some reason he is standing on that settée?"

Holmes motioned him down, which was instantly complied with. "I expect that Mrs. Watson is not handling her condition particularly well."

"Oh, is that what Josh says?"

"No! I don't speak to Uncle about _her._"

"Let's not have that, John Sherlock." Holmes was folding the paper and placing it in his waistcoat. "It was not the boy, my friend. It is you. When I see the dark bags of sleeplessness on the eyes of my normally restful Watson, I know that something troubles his mind. Added to a weight loss of"—he studied me—"five pounds I worry he is stressed and neglecting his diet. There is also an ink stain on the back of your thumb. I know you prefer a very strong nib on your pens, so I assume you neglected to secure your tip. And why would you do that? Your mind is occupied"—

"Alright, Holmes. We all know how well you know my every idiosyncrasy. I should have known better."

Yes, I should have. How many years would it take for me to realise that there was nothing I could hide from him? I might as well have been a book on his night table that he could peruse and study at will.

But although I knew there was a bitter edge to my voice, it didn't seem to bother my friend. He certainly seemed to be in high spirits. At the sidebar, he fixed us both a drink. Pressing it into my hand, he offered me his apologies. "I hope everything goes well for her. I am sure that it will. You deserve a well-born and healthy child. And wife, as well."

I must admit that I was touched. He of all men had the least reason to say as much to me. But because I could tell he truly meant it, I did appreciate his words. "Thank you."

But this unorthodox sentimentality was as much as the boy could take. He was tugging on Holmes's arm. "What about Garrideb, Uncle? What is the next move? Will we go and examine this Mr. John Garrideb?"

Just then, a light knocking and Mrs. Robert Hudson appeared with a card upon a tray. I grabbed it and read _Mr. John Garrideb,__ Counsellor__ at Law, Mooreville, Kansas, USA. _"I don't think that will be necessary. Whoever that is, he's here."

Before I could even suggest that it may be better for my son and I to leave, as it was hardly appropriate for us to remain if he was engaged, the American rushed in the door. It has been some seven years since my public account of this case was released and nearly thirty years since the events themselves4, but still do I remember those dark eyes of James Winter, alias John Garrideb. There was an almost electric quality to them—and behind this intense inward life—an evil that I missed at the time, but can see clearly enough even now.

"Mr. Holmes?" The stranger said, looking first at me and then with surprise at my son and finally laying eyes on my friend. "Ah, yes, I see that you are. There is some likeness in your pictures. I believe you have had a letter from my namesake, Mr. Nathan Garrideb."

"Pray have a seat. I fancy we shall have much to discuss." I saw him wink down almost imperceptibly at the boy as our guest—his, actually, sat. "You are, of course, the Mr. John Garrideb from America that I have in this letter. But surely you have been in England for some time?"

"And where do you read that, sir?"

"Your whole outfit is English." This was supplied by my son. Folding his hands behind his back, he studied the man as some boys would study a frog or a rugby pitch. Holmes beamed and clamped a hand down on his shoulder. "His boots, his collar, a Windsor knot in his tie—is that right, Uncle?"

"The shoulder cut of his coat, the toe of his boot—it couldn't be more right!"

Our guest (no, not _our_) was so startled that he back-stepped. His jaw slackened and I could hardly help but feel a father's sense of pride. "Well, I had read of _your _tricks, Mr. Holmes, but I admit I never expected them from a mere lad. Your son, I expect?"

My friend gave a bit of a chuckle and shook his head. "Only in the ecclesiastical sense, Mr. Garrideb. He is not my blood, but the doctor's."

The American glanced at me as if he had forgotten my presence in the room. A flicker of anger appeared across his face, but I could not see how Holmes could have angered him. "Oh, yes, of course. I see. Well, we met to discuss my own family tree and not yours. Shall we discuss the letter I see folded into your pocket there?"

-x-

The rest of the interview was fairly sincere to my published account—Holmes, Josh and even I realised the absurdity of the tale spun by the American, but we allowed our friend to do his own job and interfered not. Although I could tell that my son, sitting on the arm of setée and kicking at the floor, looked about to burst with wanting to call Garrideb out on his fibs.

After the departure of the odd American, Josh jumped to his feet and fairly shouted, "He's barmy, Uncle!"

Holmes chuckled. "You sensed that, did you, m' boy?"

"Completely crackers5, that one."

" 'Crackers' is it? Well, well! We shall not stand for that sort of thing disgracing even the stair carpet of Baker Street! We must act, eh, doctor?"

"What?"

I was wondering what the deuce I was doing here. My trip had begun as merely to escort Josh home, and now I was somehow being dragged into some sort of oddity of Holmes.

"You know how much I value your assistance," Holmes was saying to me. "I wonder if you would be so kind as to accompany me to Little Ryder Street. Therein lies the heart of this mystery—one Mr. Nathan Garrideb. I must find out the connexion between the real Garrideb that wrote me this letter, and this barmy (as your son says) American pseudonymous Garrideb."

I felt for a moment the old adrenaline I was akin to having pump through my veins whenever Sherlock Holmes invited my company on his cases. The thrill of adventure, the expectation of the bizarre and grotesque. The knowledge that this singular man relied on me as his helpmate—the one and only man he trusted as he defeated crime in our country.

"Yes, Papa, do come with us! It will be like olden times again…"

I looked at his impish face, enjoying the memory of 'olden' times. He and Holmes playing chess in front of the fire; the two of us regaling the lad with tales of our past escapades, his wide eyes stretching with excitement and imagination until I thought they may burst from his skull. Josh snoring on my lap as I relaxed in my chair, a merry glint in two grey eyes as Holmes softly made his violin carry us off to dreamland…Yes, it was a nice feeling. If only circumstances _did not _change. "I'm sorry, but I cannot." Josh's face fell. "You know your mother needs me at home."

A slip of the tongue on my part. "She is _not _my mother."

Young as he had been when he lost his mother, he still kept her photograph by his bedside and drew crude, child-like hearts every year on his calendar on the day of her birth. And Julia, though I think she did try her best, would never measure up to his memories of Mary. There was no use reasoning with him. So I offered my apologies to Holmes instead. But his face was perfectly calm. He may be egotistical and vain but he was not petty. "You understand, of course."

"Of course, Watson. You have your familial obligations; I have my cerebral ones"—

Forgetting my cardinal sin, Josh instantly decided this was a moment to take advantage of. "But I can come, right, Uncle? Please?" My son bounded up and down as if a colony of Indian fire ants was attacking his backside. I know Holmes did not care for petulant behaviour, but he stood for the occasional childish outburst from his godson better than he would have from anyone else. "I saw through the American straight away! I can help you."

There were no holes in _his _self-confidence at least. "The decision must rest in your father's hands, lad," said Holmes.

Two pleading eyes turned to me with a look of hopefulness I haven't seen since he had begged to be allowed to go to India with a school-mate over the winter holiday. I had refused of course. I couldn't allow any ten-year old child of mine to go half-way around the world un-supervised. To punish me, he refused to write for two months. I laughed it off to Julia, but it was harder to take than I cared admit. Especially as I knew he wrote Holmes every week. The headmaster of his school has to have the parent's permission and the money for stamps approved every term.

"This isn't…dangerous, is it?" I was compelled to ask.

"No more than our own adventures of bygone years." Holmes laughed.

"Oh, yes. Well, that fills me with complete confidence."

"I assure you that there is no danger. Mr. Nathan Garrideb is all of five-and-sixty years, meek and intellectual as I read in his letter, and we want nothing with him but talk."

Wearily, I gave my assent. I shudder to think what may have happened if I hadn't. With heedless shouts of caution from me, Holmes and the boy went off. I watched them walk down Baker Street toward Edgware, Holmes swinging his stick; Josh with one hand in his pocket, the other swinging from his Godfather's elbow. They pointed at various people and curiosities, dissecting them from afar no doubt. Their picture was something that made me smile.

-x

I took a cab back to Chelsea. The familiarity of Baker Street was vacant here, I noticed immediately. The well-worn steps and rusting iron rail were replaced by ostentatious gold plating. The smell of lye soap and Scotch porridge gave way to Pond's hand cream and French perfume. Well, perhaps only time was needed to make the appropriate mental adjustments.

I found my wife on the telephone we'd recently had installed. She had insisted the machine was necessary and I did have to admit it was a comforting thought knowing I could always be in contact with my residence when at my surgery. But as of yet, the only purpose I saw the contraption serving was to connect Julia to her girl-friends so they could chat up the latest theatre shows and fashion articles.

For privacy, we'd put a machine in her bedroom for her own use and one for the maid or myself to answer in the hall. I heard the slight buzzing from the ear-piece when I walked in the door that let me know the extension was in use.

And sure enough, she was lying in her satin dressing gown, her wide stomach covered by a thin wrap, laughing into the device. When she saw me, she immediately stopped and gave a bit of an exasperated sigh. "Oh, dear, Lucinda, I must ring off now. Yes…John's home and he'll no doubt want to chastise me. I know…I know…yes, do keep me posted. Good-bye."

"I ought _to _chastise you," said I. "You know you should be resting."

She chuckled as I kissed her cheek. "Oh, John, you really are a ninny! I feel perfectly alright. Besides, what else am I supposed to do when you won't allow me any visitors"—

"My dear, you are in your last trimester. This is hardly the time to be entertaining guests. Even vapid social climbers like Lucinda Crowley."

I hoped she might take this as a joke and at one point in time she would have. She had called her good friend Mrs. Crowley a 'sausage-head whose mind is always on meat.' But between the heat and her condition, any trace of a good-humour had been eliminated. "Now that is ungracious of you. Granted she may be a bit…superfluous. But I say nothing of the qualities of _your _friends."

I laughed. "They are all normal men!"

She gave me such a look at that I nearly blushed. Of course, Holmes hardly measured on the curve of any sort of 'normality' graph. "Besides"—I quickly continued, "they are not pregnant and you are. So I won't start a row with you. And I'd appreciate if you wouldn't mind taking a pill and having a cold drink."

Much to my relief, she did as I requested with no protests. I administered a dose of chloral hydrate and put out the light for her. I told our cook Mrs. Watson was to have a light meal when she awoken—some beef broth and fresh fruit. As for myself, I was going to my office to look over some paperwork. She was to call if anything was needed. Master Josh and I would eat supper later—sandwiches and milk were fine for us. It was too hot for her to keep the fire in the kitchen stove going. She agreed, thanked me and disappeared. I was glad that was all dealt with.

-x-

As I sat at my desk, names of patients and copious amounts of notes began to flood together. A simple myocardial infarction began to make about as much sense as an Egyptian hieroglyph. Coffee. Perhaps that would keep the strength up. But the charwoman had the day off, and my own legs were too watery to even think of going for some. So instead I fished a cigarette from my case and began to smoke, shoving the reams of paper into the corner. Another day wouldn't put me any more behind.

But the tobacco was far too much a sedative to the nerves; I was almost instantly too calm. Too relaxed. My mind began to float right out into the sweltering June sun. My sweating brow slipped from my hand and I relaxed it against the desk. A month of insomnia was going to catch me in a snare in a matter of seconds.

Like any dream, I arrived in the middle and there was no beginning or end to the thing. No logical sequence. What there was appeared to be some sort of precipice—a cliff. I can vividly recall standing on the rocky edge, the water so far below that it appeared as rising steam. There was the roaring hiss of water but I saw no falls. Merely a greenish vapour slowly evaporating into a colourless sky.

Surely it will surprise no one when I say that Sherlock Holmes was there. In his finest suit of clothes, the emerald tie pin and the watch I had bought him winking at me, he looked as young and healthy as he had in his late twenties when first I'd known him. He smiled warmly, invitingly even. The fetid steam that was poisoning the atmosphere seemed unable to penetrate the man. He was surrounded by clean, clear air.

I tried to move toward him, but he merely side-stepped my advance. The delighted look had fallen from his face and a stern, superior one replaced it. The lips pursed into a single white frown and a long finger motioned to something behind me.

I spun around.

Before me stood (or rather slithered) a gigantic nightmarish creature, serpentine in shape. Fifty feet of coiled length, a pair of bead-y, red eyes and two fangs like stalactites dripping above me. In colour, the snake was red, but there was something distinctly human about it. It had arms and hands. Long delicate feminine arms with soft manicured hands. Asleep in those arms was an infant with auburn-coloured hair.

I had not even a chance to move as the creature rose up with a noise that was a cross of a hiss and a scream. The naked child was thrust above its head, just inches from the rim of the cliff. My heart leapt in fear as a strange paternal instinct bade me to leap at it, to save the baby.

But though the mind was willing, the flesh was weak. I was unable to take even one step. It was as though some invisible hand pressed me into the ground and while my boots dug into the rocks in a desperate attempt to leap forward, I saw the baby evaporate into the green fog, still noiseless, still so obviously my child. I could almost feel the poor thing fall to its death just a mere foot or two from the tips of my fingers. And the guilt that rushed through my brain was something so real that I dare say it transcended the dream-world.

Holmes was suddenly by my side. A magnificent sword with a hilt made of rubies was in one hand; the other he stuck out in front of my chest in a protective gesture. I thought I should yell some warning to him but among my other deficiencies was that I had no voice. _No, no…it mustn't kill you as well. Stop, Holmes! Stop! _The sword sliced through the air at the screaming creature. When it hit the snake's neck, just before the head went flying over the cliff, it sounded much like the report of a gun. A sound I was more familiar with than most. The blood began gushing from the wound over Holmes and I, a veritable fountain that almost instantly filled our lungs and left us drowning in my mind.

The horrific hand of death closing over my mouth was the last I recall of the dream. To date, it remains one of the most vivid dreams I have ever experienced. I occasionally have to remind myself that it didn't really occur; it seemed that real.

I admit in my old age that I have not been fond of snakes since.

-x-

Something sharp was poking me in my old injured shoulder. Drowsily, the thick summer heat washed over me and the cobwebs departed as consciousness returned. I peeled my head from a puddle of sweat on my desk to look up. The object stabbing me was the finger of my son and he jumped back when I growled at him to stop.

My ethereal friend, now the proper age and dressed in a plain frock coat and cross tie, had his hands folded behind his back. There was a noticeable flinch of curiosity on his mouth as if I had already told him of the horrors that just occurred in my mind. "Sorry to ruin your siesta, friend Watson. John Sherlock and I were on our way back from Ryder Street and we surmised you may be in."

"Ryder…Street?" I trudged stupidly past them to my pitcher. I could have dunked my entire head in the tepid water, had I not had a shuddering reminder of how it felt to drown in blood. "Oh, yes…the err…what was it? Garrideb?"

Josh, too excited to see my irritability, waved a piece of newsprint in front of me. "You should have been there, Papa! I was right about how stupid that American was. He placed an advertisement for this Howard Garrideb…and he spelled things wrong…"

I nodded wearily as my son droned on about the idiocy of John Garrideb and how close he and Holmes were to discovering what sort of scheme he was involved in.

"After our sojourn to this helpless old man I sense an element of danger I may have neglected to notice at first," Holmes said when Josh was finally finished. "I will need you, if you be so kind, to accompany me back there tonight. That is, if Mrs. Watson can spare you for a few hours." He cleared his throat. He seemed to be nervous I would refuse him.

"But Uncle…this is _our _case." Josh looked as though he had just been slapped.

He patted the boy's shoulder. "Your help was invaluable. But I cannot risk your safety. And I am sure you will agree with what we discussed. That while this American is lacking in rationality, he is no less dangerous with a gun or any other sort of weapon."

While they argued, I had the image of that baby (_my _baby, to be sure) falling to its death as it was thrown off of a cliff. And how Holmes had beheaded the snake. Pathetic, really, for a grown man to be so rattled by a dream that meant nothing, but I was letting it influence me. I had seen too much of the world to not recognise a warning when it appeared to me.

"I'll come with you, Holmes." I tried to look as though this were a casual decision on my part. "Provided I have time to check on Julia first."

-x-

I would learn more than ten years future from this date of a conversation that occurred whilst I was chasing a Killer called Evans with Holmes. At the time that Josh confessed it to me, I admit I was furious. But I like to think that in my twilight years I have had some time to reflect on the choices I have made, and to realise that we sometimes act with the best intentions that can nonetheless have the most disastrous outcomes.

Josh was disappointed. Once more, he had not been allowed to join his Uncle on the outcome of a case. He would ask his opinion on the boring details—what did he deduce about this fellow and did he notice anything unusual in this letter or whatnot—but he never got to see the outcome. The chase. The _adventure. _And that was what he really wanted.

Worst of all, he was bored. He was tired of his books, tired of the hammock, tired of writing in his journal. He thought to begin a letter to his mate from school, but he was in India with his family and he knew that anything he would have to say would sound terribly dull. He wished he were back in Devon. At least there he was always made to _do _something, even if it wasn't always what he would choose.

_Look after Julia, _his Papa had said. That was the last thing he wanted to do. To sit with her and not know what to say. When he was a little chap, he never had any trouble, but it was a lot easier to speak to a lady before she became your step-mother. Especially since he highly suspected she was the reason they were no longer living in Baker Street.

He was never bored there. He always had something to bake with Mrs. Hudson, a chemistry lesson with Uncle or a story to tell with his Papa. But now his father was busy with Julia and thinking about the baby and there was no time for him. He had time to run off and assist his godfather when it suited him but they couldn't live with him anymore because he had to be married to Julia. Josh sighed deeply and plopped himself on the stairs to watch the front door. He thought he understood what a man should be like. But maybe he really didn't.

"Josh! Josh, darling, do come in!"

He glanced at the parlour; the door was cracked, and she must have heard him. Oh, well. He had said he would look after her. He stomped over and stuck his head in. He could not _wait _until the baby came and he would once again be forgotten. Or better yet, free to run about London and do as he pleased.

"Are you alright?" He asked, jiggling the handle. "Shall I run and fetch Papa?"

But she was just sitting there, on her favorite cushion on the velvet setée, thumbing through a magazine. An uneaten plate of apple and cheese sat next to her. Another big pillow was propping up her feet. Josh wondered briefly what it would be like to be waited on like that, just because you had gotten fat with a baby.

"Oh, no! I think not. Come in and sit with me for a moment or two. I'm dreadfully bored. I've read this issue of The Woman at Home three times at least. And I never even really liked those sorts of things to begin with. Recipes and diapering hints—how dreary."

What could a ten-year old boy be expected to say to that? Nothing, apparently, but my son obediently curled into his chair opposite hers and studied her without her realising it. It was a trick he'd learned at perhaps age four from Holmes. By this age he had mastered it. "You don't like being pregnant," he unnecessarily noted.

"I certainly do not."

"Do you think you will like being a mother then?"

"Why, Josh! What a thing to say!" She laughed, thinking he was in jest. "I suppose that all comes naturally…after the baby arrives and all. One only needs time to get used to the idea."

"Yes."

The boy was completely unconvinced. She was avoiding a direct answer. And her laughter was forced. And she had touched her ear. All three were signs of deception. His Uncle had taught him about fifty signs to look for several years back, and the boy had written every one down. He occasionally studied them when he had nothing better to do. "Besides Papa will be a help to you. He does well with little fellows. He was alright with me when I was small."

"Your father is such a dear. You cannot possibly know how much he cares for you."

Not exactly what a boy his age wants to hear either. She always had to say things that made him feel uncomfortable. "Oh, yes. And I'm sure he loves you. And especially the baby. You can tell because he likes to touch your stomach and makes you rest so it won't die like my sister did when my mother died. It's the same as when he would make Uncle eat and lectures him about his bad habits. He loves him very much also."

Julia turned with a quizzical expression. No, it must simply be the surging hormonal imbalance. Besides, he was just a child. What in the world could a boy his age know about love?

Of course, the boys she remembered from her childhood would spy on her and her girl-friends from trees, shout at each other in football matches and thump each other on the back of the necks. Josh was not much like a typical ten-year old. He never got into fights. And he _saw _everything. At times, he nearly gave her the willies. "Darling, I know your _Uncle, _as you call him, is dear to you. And to your father as well. But I cannot believe you really can compare our love to his friendship with Mr. Holmes."

Josh smiled. He folded his legs up and hugged them to his chest, resting his chin on his knees. He let his angelic blue eyes wash over to his step-mother. "When I was a little fellow, before Papa left Uncle to marry you, I saw them kissing."

Julia felt like the unborn foetus had somehow grabbed a knife and suddenly started stabbing her in the throat. She began to choke violently. Her soft, completely lady-like hands clutched at her stomach. There was a horrific urge to reach in and rip the baby from her.

Josh sat up, alarmed. He had told the truth. And he knew that the truth, whether she believed it or not, had the potential to devastate. But he didn't want to kill her. He jumped to his feet and ran to the sideboard to pour a glass of water for her. He gently pushed it into her hand.

"Julia," he said, his voice nearly inaudible. "You're in pain. I think I should fetch Papa for you."

She drank the water without answering, the perspiring glass dripping down her face. The pain dissipated slightly, but she could still feel a vague nausea and panic in her gut. _Why would he say that? Why would a child say such a horrid thing? Jealousy? Perhaps—yes, that had to be it. It _had_ to…_

"Thank you for the water," she said.

He swallowed hard and nodded. She looked as though she were going to be sick and he was responsible. He nearly blurted out that what he had just said was a lie. But he didn't lie. He was tired of lies. He wanted the truth to out at last. He was tired of living his false life with his father and step-father, pretending he understood certain things but not others. And acting as though he was ready to become his godfather, with all his genius and all his faults, who treated him like a man one minute and a child the next. Two different circles that had so much in common, brushed against each other occasionally but never allowed each other's boundaries to be penetrated.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said. But it is true. And I love them both." He got up and went to the door. He thought he might say that he loved her as well. But it wasn't true. She had been fairly kind to him. But he didn't love her.

"Josh," he turned back around. Her face was bright pink, like she was crying. She clutched at her belly. "I think…I think you _had_ better fetch your father, after all. Please."

He didn't hesitate for a second. Slamming the door hard behind him, he was out into the early evening heat and heading down the street. He was not a boy fond of running as many are, but he enjoyed it then. If he could run fast enough, he wouldn't have to think. There were usually cabs to be had near the children's hospital on Tite Street6 and it was in that direction that he ran. Had he any money? He felt into his pocket. Yes, his Papa had given him a half-sovereign for an emergency that he was not to spend unless necessary. He guessed this was an emergency.

-x-

The late afternoon was still boiling but my friend insisted we walk. It felt something like a gift as we had not had this small pleasure in months. There was not an overabundance of people, just the occasional businessman jumping to and from hansoms, wheeling their way amongst cart-pushers and flower-girls as we exited the boundaries of Chelsea.

Our sticks were tucked under our arms. There was a bulge in Holmes's side pocket that I immediately recognised as his revolver. He had said nothing about bringing mine. Odd because usually if a gun was needed he relied on my steadier and more practiced hand.

"So this is why you needed me and not the boy," I said, motioning toward his weapon. "You expect some trouble."

"Always." He glanced at me. "Perhaps tonight even more so."

"Oh? How so?"

We walked some paces before he replied. "I enjoyed your son today, doctor. He has many qualities that will serve him far in whatever he chooses to turn himself into. He is intelligent, certainly, but he also possesses a curious empathy that draws those in need to him." _Insinuating that this is a genetic gift from me, no doubt. _"As we were leaving my client, Nathan Garrideb, your son shook the old man's hand and said, and I quote, 'don't worry, sir, my Uncle and I will figure this thing out for you.'" He chuckled. "I should say that the old codger was surprised."

In twenty years, I may have been walking next to my son exactly as Holmes and I were now. The tall, lean shadow was shorter, portlier, but under the gaslight, their two shadows would reflect much the same against the cobblestone. "Then I will _not _be surprised when it is you he turns into and not me."

"Do not be so certain." Holmes flashed me a whip-fast grin. "My mother frequently thanked God that there is but one of me."

"For the one and only time I fully share your mother's sentiment."

We moved ever-so-slightly closer turning the corner. I felt the bone of his shoulder slap against my back. He is instantly quiet—too quiet. We are not friends of two decades for nothing. Clearly there is something he is not telling me.

I didn't have long to wonder. We moved silently by the Marble Arch7 on the south of Edgware, when suddenly Holmes grabbed my arm and pulled me against the far side of it. "What the Devil are you doing?" I asked, wrenching my limb from his grasp.

"My apologies." He squints and looks around the wall for signs of a roaming constable, I suppose. But the gates were closed and if the regulars were in, there was no sign of them. Only when he was sure we were alone did he release the lapel of my coat and give me an inch of space. "But before we reach our destination, I have something I must tell you."

I froze. I had ideas of him saying he was going to take Josh and leave, beg me to join him again, etc, etc. Rubbish and completely ridiculous, of course, but who would expect but the unexpected from the man? "What?" I asked, not trusting my voice beyond that single word.

"With your wife and new child, you will soon be farther away from your old life than ever you have before. I feel this may be one of the last chances I get to have you by my side. And I wanted to offer my sincere thanks"—

"My dear chap! You know there is no need"—

"And to tell you that I am retiring."

"—to thank me…what? What on Earth do you mean?"

He nodded as easily as if he had just stated he would have a second cup of coffee or a piece of toast. "It is a decision I have been contemplating for quite a while. Since…well, that Cornish horror of a few years past. I hadn't realised before then how much I had changed. Perhaps I did, but cared not to admit it to myself."

I recalled him screaming in his room, unable to help him, as every nerve in his body craved the drug he was attempting to deny himself. "Are you talking about the cocaine?"

He gave me a disappointed look. "Before…before _us_, can you honestly say that you would ever imagine me allowing a known murderer to walk completely free, just because I sympathised with his situation? And I have done it since, as well.8 I became, or rather invented my unique profession because I could not bear to think that others have suffered as I have while criminals go free." He sighed dramatically, slapping at the trim of the massive wall we stood at. "But even my sister, who believed in me as no other has, would never want me continue if I thought I had lost the reason I chose to make crime my specialty."

"But…but Holmes…" I hardly knew what to say. He couldn't retire. Any more than the sun could fail to rise one morning.

"I am still undecided about what exactly I will do or where I will go. Out of London, to be sure. Cornwall holds some interest for me…as does Sussex. Somewhere near water…"

"Holmes! How can you retire?" I grabbed his shoulder and almost shook him. "It will kill you! What will you do when your mind is bored? Turn back to the drugs? I won't allow it! I won't see you kill yourself just because you are not the same man you once were."

He nearly laughed, but seeing something in my face as to how serious I was, he stopped himself. The butt of his stick he tapped at my neck and said, "Chin up, doctor! All is not so glum as it may appear. I have no intention of returning to the cocaine."

"What then?"

Before he answered, the dulcet bong of Big Ben could be heard striking the hour of four. Almost as if on cue, Holmes touched my wrist and motioned me forward. "The hour is getting late. And as we must arrive at the house before the housekeeper leaves, we had better keep at it." He swung out his stick in front of him and took off at a fairly rapid speed as if nothing had just occurred.

I sped to catch him. "I should think this conversation is not at an end, Holmes."

"No. But it will have to wait until later to be finished." I saw the sign post for Little Ryder Street on a brick building in front of us and knew we were close. Before we crossed the street toward a line of older brick edifices, he said to me, "As well as you know me, my friend, I know myself better. You must trust me to do what is right for me, as I have done by you."

-x-

The house, which looked to me more like a small museum, was deserted save for an elderly lady that seemed to recognise Holmes. She quickly departed after he promised to lock-up when we were finished. He immediately began to search about the strange room—covered with plaster skulls, coins, and various scientific instruments. After peering in several cupboards, a large cabinet, and displacing what looked like a stuffed tiger, I was compelled to ask, "What exactly is it that we are doing here?"

He motioned me toward a second large cabinet, this one nearly hidden in the shadows. As we crouched there in the darkened room, he gave me a brief outline of his investigation. "So you think that American is here to burgle Garrideb's house?"

"Possess your soul in patience, doctor, and soon we will see."

We soon did. We had squatted not long enough for me to even lose sensation in my legs before the door opened and the man I now knew as Killer Evans opened the door. A moment or two later, he had disappeared under the floor and Holmes and I were tiptoeing after him, neither of us imagining what was about to occur.

Funny how events that have so impacted one's life slow in our minds as our arteries harden around them. What happened next could not have been more than five or six seconds, yet the way I recall it, time seemed to be moving in slow motion.

5 seconds—There is a gun in Killer Evans hand, pointing at us. From behind I hear a child's terrified voice scream out, "Papa!"

4 seconds—There is a searing pain in my left thigh as if a red-hot poker had pressed to my skin.

3 seconds—A second report. This bullet whizzes wide right of me. I don't hear it hit, but from the floor where I've been flung I see the grey eyes of Sherlock Holmes darken till they are black.

2 seconds—The clank of metal against metal. Evan's gun clatters to the floor. His arms are out-stretched as if in disarray. A snarl of fury escapes from the lips of my friend. His gun is pointed at the Killer's head.

1 second—Josh is in my arms. I've no recollection of how he got there. He trembles and squeezes my neck so tightly that the oxygen is cut off. Another gun report. Then another, a second later. I watch as what used to be the occipital lobe of James Winter explodes in a sea of tissue and brain matter. His face is distorted in agony but he is dead before his cerebral cortex could even be notified of distress.

Holmes falls to his knees in front of us. "You're not hurt? For God's sake, say that you are not hurt!"

I shake my head. "It's nothing, Holmes. A scratch."

But it is Josh's face he has in his hands. "Are you hit?"

Him saying the words—the words _are you hit—_nearly make me nauseous. I'm yelling and grabbing at him and trying to stand all at once. I feel his stubby arms and legs through the clothing, wrench the buttons free from his shirt. All the while I'm muttering _no, no, no…_

But he is pushing my remonstrations away. "I'm fine, Papa. Stop. I've not been shot. Do stop."

Holmes hand grasps mine. "He is right. See here."

I look to where his hand points, and I see a large rip in the fabric near the pocket. It might be do to the carelessness of a boy, but putting my face closer I can clearly smell the residue of gunpowder and see the burn as the bullet came within inches of his hip. As the relief floods over me, I have to allow myself a few seconds to regain my composure. Josh has himself entwined in my arm, the head of blond curls buried in my shoulder. Holmes's hand is still in mine although I cannot be sure he realises it. His normally colourless face is flushed red with exertion in all that has occurred in less than one minute. I study that face. That familiar face. It has changed somewhat, I am surprised to see. Not enough that any normal acquaintance of his would be cognizant of, but I see for the first time signs of aging. There is grey at his brow and temple. The steel-coloured eyes are situated in sockets that show the beginning of crow's feet. The lines on his brow that normally are present only when he is deep in thought are more prevalent. It is an almost unfathomable thought that Sherlock Holmes can age, but I see with my own eyes that he can. He is nearing fifty. And somedays, like this one, he is mortal.

I think I nearly understand why he is retiring then.

All at once, the anger drains and my friend snatches himself away from the tangle of Watsons to coolly take up his revolver that he had dropped. He retrieves his handkerchief, wipes both his weapon and brow, and returns both items to his pocket. The candle which the criminal had lit to take down the trap door was glistening up at us, and I watched as Holmes straightened his tie and looked down. "A counterfeiters operation if I ever saw one." He looks to the crumpled body, the gory hole that still drips brains and a massive river of blood. Many a seasoned Inspector may have given way to a gag or even vomiting to see such a sight. "Is your leg well enough to give the Yard a call, Watson? I should think one is warranted. And I'd like a word with my godson, if I may."

Taking my own and Josh's handkerchief's, I tie the two together for a make-shift tourniquet. The amount of blood loss is not particularly worrisome, and even the most cursory examination of the wound tells me it is not deep enough to worry about damage to any nerve or muscle. There is only the pain of putting my weight on it. I am still somewhat numb from the shock of all that just occurred, but the pain that shoots up my thigh is real enough to assure me _this_ is real enough. A maniac _did_ just come within a hair's length of shooting my son.

And if he does indeed one day become London's second private consulting detective, it could be the first of many such near wounds. Perhaps he would not always be so lucky. Logic stood to reason he would not.

I limp back to the front room amidst two murmuring voices. My son is purposively looking away from the gory sight to his left, but he does not look at Holmes either. The man has his arms crossed in front of him as he leans in to speak. From where I stand, I cannot hear him. But I don't think I really want to know what he tells him. Every few seconds, John Sherlock nods. He has no words to answer his Godfather.

"Lestrade is coming immediately," I announce. "But I could hardly give an adequate explanation of…_this _over the telephone."

"I will tell him what he needs to know," said Holmes. I wonder how much of the truth that includes.

Reality is beginning to set in. The pain coursing through my leg jolts me back to the present. And I realise I have no idea why or how my son got here. But after what has just happened, I must be patient. I most hold my temper that he has nearly gotten himself killed. "Josh," I grab a chair to take the weight off. "Look at me now, lad. Why are you here? Tell me what has happened." Now he cannot take his sights off of the body. I turn his head for him. "Mustn't look there. Look at me. Look at your Papa. Tell me what's happening."

His voice comes back, but it is hardly more than a squeak. "Julia. She wants you back home. I came…to get you, oh, Papa!" He throws his arms around my neck again and I hug him for quite some time, stroking his hair while Holmes stands by the window with his arms crossed, waiting. His Adam's apple bobs up and down slowly, repeatedly. Almost as though he has forgotten our presence.

Just after the regulars arrive to eradicate the scene, I quietly tell Lestrade that I am taking my son home. I will come to Scotland Yard tomorrow to give a statement and he knows enough to not hold me. I would have left even if he had. The last view I have of Sherlock Holmes is he standing just inside the door-way, head bowed slightly, but still in possession of himself enough to direct the salient points of the crime to the Inspector. He seems ashamed. I think his godson may have something to do with that.

-x-

Josh and I walk into the darkness and the cab my son has wisely kept waiting is still there, idling by the walk. The air is still sweltering, but I barely feel the sweat that coats my face and neck. The boy holds my hand for the first time in years. Even as we climb into the seat, he clings to me, and not to another, for once.

After all that has happened, I have to force my mind back to what is important. "Is Julia alright?"

He squirms next to me. His small hand actually tightens in mine.

"Josh?"

"She needs you, is all, Papa," he mumbles. "But she is alright."

I watch him as the dull thud-like clomping of the horse is the only noise. There is something wrong. He is too pale and still. He never just _sits_. I try not to think that seeing a man's head explode may have all sorts of unforeseen consequences on a young boy's development. He may be in shock. And even a lad as unusual and advanced as he may be unable to adequately express his feelings about what occurred. I pull him toward me and put my finger to his neck. His pulse feels normal; his skin is slightly flushed but neither cold nor clammy.

He pushes me away without releasing my hand. "He shot him."

"What son?"

"Uncle…he shot that man. He killed him like it was…stepping on an insect."

"The man _was _an insect." I feel a throb of sympathy in my latest wound and tighten the tourniquet slightly. "I have the proof here, in my thigh. And you came very near to proof yourself."

"Yes, but…"

"But what?"

He simply shakes his head. For once, I understand the lad. He sees his Godfather for the first time as a man, and not some sort of Deity to be worshipped. It is a shock when those we hero-worship fall from their pedestals. I myself thought Sherlock Holmes a machine for years, and see how wrong I was! Josh thought him a God to be emulated; a perfect idol that he could somehow force through sheer will-power to become.

_Because a God cannot be hurt. A God does not let the pettiness of his fellows ruin his life. And a God does not desire love and affection. He needs no one._

But who am I talking about? Josh or myself? I can't say. "I'm sorry," I softly speak into the boy's ear.

He looks up at me with Mary's eyes. I think he might ask what I'm sorry for. But he does not. "Me too," he says. Neither of us offer up what we are apologising for. For myself, I know that part of the reason is how I have so disrupted my son's life, trying to do what I think right and ending up simply making him more confused. I have so tried to do what I think best for him. I have given him a mother, a good school, a normal father. But for a moment there, with Holmes, with the snarl of anger I had seen on his face as he brutally gunned down the man he thought had taken his family from him, I knew Josh would only see the three of us as his family. He had seen the concern, heard the emotional words from his Godfather; he had seen my panic when I thought him shot.

He saw only Holmes and I as his family.

And God forgive me, in that moment, with Josh and Holmes, I had seen the very same thing.

-x-

1 Queen Victoria died in early 1901

2 From BLAN, which takes place just months after this

3 A kind of cake with a distinct check pattern covered in marzipan. Popular beginning in the late 19th century.

4 The "Case-book of Sherlock Holmes" was published in 1924, so Watson is writing this around 1931.

5 Schoolboy slang—he's crazy

6 Street in Chelsea where Oscar Wilde lived

7 This is a ceremonial arch that used to be at the gateway of Buckingham palace, but from the 1850's on, was moved to the entrance of a park. It was used as a Police station until the 1950's.

8 In ABBE, which also takes place in '97, he let Jack Crocker go free. Curious to me that both these men committed murder for love, and that Holmes sympathized with this, when supposedly he has 'never loved.'


	34. Chapter 34

**Merry Christmas!**

_The following letter was added by Lily Watson at a later date:_

_To Mr. Sherlock Holmes, to be held in trust for my daughter, Martha Lily Rose Watson, until such a time as she may be old enough to appreciate what her mother has to say:_

_My little Lily Rose,_

_I will not ask for your forgiveness. I must say that, first off. You will not give it and I will not entreat upon you to offer. Indeed, even if you were to say, 'But I have had a wonderful childhood and my father has done a good job of raising me to young womanhood. So I do forgive you, Mother,' I would say No, You Must Not. It is the worst crime in the world to deprive a child of her mother. I know. I was deprived of mine and it was through tragedy rather than folly. Still, I never forgave her. You should never grant me pardon for such a sin._

_But I did want to explain WHY your mother left, even if I will be unequal to the task, as I fear._

_I never had a mother and indeed, other than sporadic visits to my Grandmother (for whom you are named) I never had a female influence in my life. My father, bless him, did try his best, but no man can compensate for what a girl needs. Because I could not find at home what I desired—I began at an early age to seek out other women that I could emulate. The theatre was my first choice and I was enraptured at what I saw there. The beautiful ladies and their costumes, standing toe-to-toe with their male counterpointes, making them fall in love with them, getting what they want with relative ease. You see, to a young girl, it did not appear to be smoke and mirrors. It was real life. It was the life I wanted._

_Yet an actress never really has a home. Or rather, she has a home, the stage. But she has no family. Only the fickle members of her company or troupe are there to talk to, to care for her, to give her support. It can be a very lonely life. _

_When I met your father, I was still very much a young, innocent girl. And he was a soldier (like my own Papa) and so very brave and loyal. He was there for me every second when your Grandmother died, and I thought that I needed that in my life. I thought that I could be a good wife to him—if only he would continue to care for me. What I didn't reckon was that he would want his own life as well, and while I could be a part of that, I could not be all of it. He had other duties: To his work. To your brother. To Mr. Sherlock Holmes. And he was resolute in those duties._

_And he was resolute in another way—how much he wanted and loved you. I saw that immediately. Do not mis-understand. I, too, loved my child. But while he had such an easy way with you, every moment to me felt as though I were doing something wrong. I never felt what other women call that 'motherly instinct.' I felt only the mistakes. I felt that I had to go back to the one place where I DID know how to behave and belong—the theatre. I'm afraid that I have always been so much better at imitating others' lives rather than living one of my own._

_Obviously, I could not take you with me. The only alternative was to leave you to your father's care, as I had been so left when I was a girl. But no doubt, you are a better, stronger woman than ever I could be. You will not make the same choices I made. Your children will have a good mother someday. John Watson would see to that. Julia Hudson could not._

_/x/_

I should say, first off, that though you may think me living a life of perfect misery knowing what I just confessed about seeing only my son and Sherlock Holmes as my family, I want to say that before I go further, that was not always the case. There were happy times still in store for me. My wife may have been indifferent, moody, but she still gave to me the greatest gift—a second healthy child. A daughter. A perfectly formed girl, large and loud, and for months after she arrived I was so euphoric that I hardly noticed Julia turning her face from me and locking her bedroom door at night. My son, by this time returned to school, wrote weekly so as to hear of the baby's progress. He was genuinely interested in his sibling, and his letters to me seemed more of the son I had known—joking, filled with random trivial facts he had acquired, misspellings and braggings of how the various masters adored him and how he avoided being pummelled by the others boys for it.

I was happy. The image of the sad look in Holmes's eyes, the vice-like grip he had had on my hand, the red-eyed, dirt-stained tears on Josh's face that boiling night in June when the realisation that one bullet, this time, had not nearly shattered my own existence, but my family's. A fluke of aerodynamics, the slight correction for wind-resistance, and my only son would have died in my arms, always to remain the greatest joy and the greatest puzzlement to me. And with his death, I know that Holmes would have receded into himself, never forgiving, never again allowing himself anything akin to emotional attachment for another human being.

And for myself, I never would have forgiven him either.

I am an old man now. An old man with no obligations, nothing pressing my time, no one I must rush off to see. As I continue this narrative, I sip a cup of Earl Grey in a chipped cup, long gone cold. Nothing but the wind throwing sand against our sitting room window to listen to. In an hour or two, my grandchildren will arrive by train, clad in beach attire, ready to jump and smash my old bones to pulp with their hugs and kisses. I will take them to the water, but I will sit in the sand on an old deck chair and watch them frolic about, yelling "Grandad! Watch me! Watch what I can do!" I will watch them. I will watch the oldest dunk the youngest, I will watch their swimming contests and sand-castles. I will yell at them to "be careful" and to not swim out too far. I have no greater joy than that as a Grandfather. But despite it, I know that my mind will remain here, with these words, trying to force my ever-growing feeble brain to say exactly what it means to say. To try and explain the contradictions of a man's life.

For example, I am now past eighty years old, and I am eager for Death's arrival. Yet I am still happy in this life. I miss those I have lost with such intensity that the pain it brings on is real, and I have to take aspirin tablets to steady the ache in my chest that I know will kill me soon. My doctor tells me my arteries are clogged and my heart is weak. I should eat plain, nourishing food like mush and apple-sauce and sleep as much as possible. I shouldn't allow my grandchildren to over-excite me. In fact, it would be better to not allow any small children around me at all. Pure rubbish. What the bloody Hell reason would I still have to live for then?

Here is another contradiction. I no longer have much if any desire to woo or make love, yet I still notice a gold head of hair or a buxom chest clad in these skimpy outfits that these days pass for beach attire. I can still remember as a boy my mother in her long, dour black swimming dress, looking suitably nun-like, unwilling to show more than an ankle or an arm. Modern young girls prance around with barely a thought to a leg or the small of a back attracting a man's attention. But for it all, a young fellow could be thrashing about right in front of me and I never feel anything akin to sexual.

And yet the greatest love of my life was a man.

'What a piece of work is man .' A quote from the Bard I have stuck to and occasionally repeat to myself. I disremember from which of his dramas it came from. But it has to be a universal truth.

/x/

My little daughter, a born humanitarian, once asked me what the happiest time of my life was. She was seven or eight at the time. Twenty years later, I return to that question posed by a gap-toothed, pig-tailed little child. Here is what I have determined, my darling:

Childhood is a disingenuous time to praise. Morally and emotionally undeveloped, we know nothing of the great pleasures nor pains that are in store for us as soon as hormones have morphed us into a more permanent state. I admit that I have a sense of peace remembering the taste of my mother's sour-dough bread, her soft kiss on my forehead and the sound of my father and uncle singing Scottish love songs as I sat on a quilt by the fire, listening. But these are far too simplistic memories to ever equate to true happiness.

The years that God saw fit to grant me with Mary and Josh are something I am thankful for every day. When I remember his chubby little face asleep at my wife's breast, a droplet of milk sliding down his cheek; Mary's delicate mouth humming softly as her blue eyes reflected love for me and love for the child she had suffered so to bring into this world. I know this is a vision of perfection. The memory of it would never fail to warm me on the coldest of days.

Then there are the years with Holmes—both before and after we became lovers. Of course, we never discussed how we felt. I prefer to think of those years as mostly positive but there was so much conflict (societal, moral, internal) that I fear we never were allowed a full happiness. I dare say Sherlock Holmes never knew the true meaning of the word. His childhood was horrid; his adulthood an ever-changing extreme of highs and lows defined by whether his mind was engaged, by drugs, by problems and clients, by myself, by his godson, by the nightmares of his past. We were happy. But only as much as those restrictions would allow. How could there be much room for joy mixed in all those variables?

As for Julia and I, we really could not have willed ourselves happiness anymore then a chunk of coal can will itself into a diamond. I take complete blame for this. She was so young (too young I now realise) and I was foolish enough to believe she saw in me more than just affection and security. She thought of romance as a page out of a Miss Austen novel1, I daresay. Instead, she gained a step-son who scrutinised her every move, a daughter she barely knew what to do with and a husband full of black secrets. We were the illusion of happy. But I was not illusionist enough to pull off a convincing act.

The point of this dissertation is not to try and dissect my life, looking for the exact moment of perfect bliss, but to try and say through these ramblings that there is no answer. I have been blessed enough to know happiness many times, from many people.

But with that joy comes anguish, and I have also known that well. If I have dwelled on it in these pages, I offer my apologies. I do not mean to. It is only that through the pain we see clearer the pleasure: it is keener, more real. And we are more appreciative for it. It took an event of immense pain for me to realise this. Namely, my wife leaving me. But if she had not, we probably would have endured another two decades of misery and I have my doubts that my heart would have held out this long. You, reader, would not have this account as it never would have occurred to me to write it.

/x/

In late '03, Holmes was still at his rooms in Baker Street, despite informing me of his retirement two years previous. Yet every time I had reason to pay him a visit, I saw signs of change that led me to know he had not changed his mind. The occasional packing crate appeared, stuffed with old correspondence. A length of rope to tie up a trunk lay ominously on the bear-skin rug one day. When I stopped to drop-off a Christmas present last year, I caught him carefully wrapping some of his pipes in butcher paper. I said nothing about this, asked him no questions about time and place, but we both knew that the date was nearing. Josh told me that he had made an offer on a little house on the Sussex Downs and would probably be there before the year was out.

I think the realisation that he really was going to retire caused something of a small panic in me. Suddenly, I couldn't bear to think I would never see 221B again; that I would never get to accompany him on another case; even that we would never again sit in our wicker chairs, smoking strong shag, silently watching the fire die down. So despite my new commitment to my daughter, a growing practise and the illusion of marital fidelity, I made any number of excuses to drop in. Holmes, for his part, did not ask why I suddenly was enamoured to be by his side constantly, but he would discuss a case over coffee, or even ask me to come back with my revolver and meet me at such-and-such an address. I was thrilled to accept, no matter how small a part I played. Sometimes I found it easier to stay in my old room at Baker Street, as I could more easily go straight to my consulting rooms next morning from there.

When I did see fit to return home, my wife rarely spoke besides the expected social niceties. She spent her nights at the theatre or the opera; she spent her days chatting with her girl-friends and taxing my pocketbook with shopping orgies. And besides sleeping and eating, I spent my home hours playing with the baby—reading her stories, taking her on outings to the garden, tucking her in her little cot at night. I was determined to have a child that I understood and one that fully sympathised with me.

On a warm day in October, I returned home tired, dishevelled and hungry. There had been an outbreak of German measles, and it seemed as if every little tyke on Tyte Street had caught it. I had called on no less than six houses—thirteen infected children altogether—and I wanted nothing more than a stiff drink, a hot bath and a soft pillow.

Our maid, Peggy MacLeod, served me a cutlet and a full glass of whisky, and I ate it in large mouthfuls whilst asking her the business of the house. "Is Miss Lily asleep yet?"

"Aye, sir. She went down lack of a sack of potatoes, the little dear," she answered, smiling. Though still quite young herself, both she and my daughter's nurse were fond of my little girl. I know many a nurse or maid will resent their charges as spoiled or bratty, but I think both ladies genuinely cared about Lily Rose. She was a very good, if vocal, baby.

"Is she still bothered by that tooth?"

"Aye. A bit, sir. But Nurse gave her the rubber to chew on, and she stopped fussing."

"A brilliant invention, that." I downed the last of my drink, feeling proud that I was a being such a good father. "Did she ask for me?"

"When she goes down, she does cry a bit for her 'Da.'"

I smiled. She was all of 16 months, but it was my face that made her light up like the sun. The few times I went to her with Julia, she was all but indifferent to her presence. Wrong and petty of me, I know, but I took a perverse pleasure in knowing that the baby preferred me to her mother. And in turn, her mother preferred the theatre over both of us. I suppose, in retrospect, I was a complete ass for not predicting what was soon to occur.

"You and Nurse may have the evening off, Peggy. I'll soon be retiring and if the baby awakens, I'll see to her myself."

Peggy thanked me, curtsied, and then hesitated at the doorway. "Sir? May I ask when you expect Mrs. Watson back? Only if she's to be gone for several days, Cook has the dinners to plan…" She trailed off. The girl had a bad habit of doing so.

"Back? What do you mean, Peggy? Has she gone?"

My maid fidgeted a bit with her collar. "Well, yes, sir. Surely you knew. She left soon as you this morning, or near to it. Took her largest trunk and that big blue case beside. We figured she may be…on holiday for a bit, sir, seeing as how she took so much. Well, I know I shouldn't conjecture…" Her head lowered.

"No, no…do you recall…she took a cab, surely?"

"Yes, sir. To Victoria. But she said hardly a word to the servants. And no message for you, sir."

I was trying to wrap my brain around this. Julia had said nothing to me about a holiday. And the girl, though an odd one to begin with, was acting so queer. As if she knew something and was afraid to say it. I shook my head. Where would my wife have gone? And why would she take both a trunk and a big case with her? Nearly everything she owned could fit.

And why wouldn't she say something? A day trip I may have mis-heard, but if she were going for days or weeks, surely my memory could be counted on to remember that. "I…er, it's fine, Peggy. Tell Cook…tell her that I'm not sure how long her mistress will be gone, but not to include her for the next few days, at least. If that changes, I'll personally let her know."

Again, Peggy curtsied, this time with a silly smile on her face. She all but ran for her chamber. I heard her door close firmly before it occurred to me I should stand up and find out what the Devil was going on in my own house.

The next morning I was supposed to make five house calls and had no less than eight consultations scheduled, but I ignored all of them. I made a great effort of pretending all was well—ate some breakfast, played with the baby, even telephoned my assistant. But as soon as I left the house, I went left rather than right and ordered a cab to Baker Street. I was nearly numb.

I had spent the better part of the night in my wife's room. Like a scientist with a microscope, I had examined every inch of it, looking for answers. I had found none. Most, but not all, of her clothes, hats and toiletries were gone. A photograph of her, I and the baby remained on her dressing table. Surely she would not leave that, would she? Her jewellery was mostly gone, but a few pieces of paste remained. Her diary, which she left locked in her desk drawer, was gone. All I could find were some old bills, a birthday card, and a letter from her father that revealed nothing. In a small notebook on her bed table, I had found the telephone numbers of many people—some that I recognised, some I did not—but I couldn't bring myself to call any of them, even the ones I knew. What could I say? And her wedding ring. I felt the blood drain from my face. Was that to be taken as a good sign? (She did not wish to sell it) or a bad (our marriage was over?) Finally, finding nothing better to do, I had collapsed on her bed. I slept poorly and tried not to dream. I knew there was only one place I could go for help. Surprisingly the realisation did not distress me as much as it should.

/x/

I believe I began to breathe again when I flung open the sitting room door. It must have been the shock of seeing it so empty.

The stained deal table lay abandoned by Holmes's bedroom door, a small trunk marked 'poison' and 'handle with care' sat next to it. The bookshelves ran amok with gaping, untidy holes. His crime library was in a thousand pieces, bulging out of cardboard cartons. There were many bright, clean spots in the wall paper where framed pictures had hung undisturbed for years. The most ominous was north of the fireplace, the large etching of Reichenbach having disappeared as surely as he himself had 12 years previous.

"We have at last come full circle, Watson."

I spun around to see my friend come in from the WC carrying his toilet case. He wore a singularly calm expression that suggested he packed to leave his home of twenty years every day.

"Full circle?"

"Indeed. We moved in together. You left. And now I leave." He motioned around with one finger. "Our endings collide with our beginnings."

"I think, technically speaking, it was you who left first." My eye motioned to the large empty space above the fireplace.

His mouth twitched. "Fair enough. But I did return. Just as you have now."

Ah, irony! Any mortal man could postulate that I did indeed want to return to Baker Street, to Sherlock Holmes. It was like coming home. But I had to think about other things. My wife. I had to concentrate on my wife. One of my children had already lost his mother. I did not want the same to happen to the other.

"Holmes," said I, trying not to let my voice shake. "I find I need your help."

His grey eyes flashed momentarily but he looked away and continued dropping handfuls of papers into a trunk. "Indeed?"

"Yes. I, er, your professional services, that is."

"I see."

"If you would be so kind."

"Of course."

He sounded so calm and uninterested I was nearly angry. With a grunt of impatience, I said, "Holmes, do you think you could turn around? There is something awkward about addressing the back of a head."

He dropped three last books and let the lid slam shut with a bang. Rubbing his hands together, he began scanning the room. "Hmmm…oh, a thousand apologies, dear boy. It is only that I already know what you wish of me."

I stared. Surely now of all times, he wouldn't…

"Your boot-laces."

Yes, he would.

"You see, when you are in a hurry, as I have observed numerous times in the past, you tie your boot-laces in a simple double loop knot," he began, his voice gaining speed and precision as he entered into one of his many realms of expertise. "However, when you are not pressured with your toilet, you generally employ a non-standard, but more functional hidden knot. I have found this a common practise among military men."

"So they won't come"—

"Untied if you have to run," he finished. I smiled, shaking my head. He offered me his whip-fast grin. "In addition, I see that you did not shave this morning. So you were in a hurry, but still had time make sure your tie and boot-laces were adequate. If the emergency involved Josh or yourself, you would have come immediately and your dress would be a mess. But you hesitated, deciding whether or not I was the appropriate person to come to. You have the key to your consulting room on your watch chain therefore you wanted someone, no doubt your servants, to think you were on your way to work. If she were murdered, that ruse would of course be unnecessary"—

"Holmes!"

"So you were distracted, yet you had time to consider. You are alone, so discretion is involved. It involves your wife, but if she were hurt or killed, I would have Scotland Yard trampling over my stair carpet even as we spoke. Therefore I would say she has disappeared."

"Holmes…" I paused. What could I say? It was ingenious. But then again, when wasn't he?

"I am right, am I not?"

"I wish you wouldn't do that just now," I muttered, crossing my arms so he could not see them shake. "I mean…my wife is gone. She's left me. Of course you are right. But you could…it is distressful to me."

Saying it aloud was horrid for me, but I don't think Holmes understood. I don't know why I would have expected him to. He motioned me to my old chair and he slowly climbed into his. These two chairs were nearly all that remained of two decades of familiarity.

"She's been gone now, let's see, 26 hours," he said, peering over clasped hands at me.

"Thereabouts."

"And you are sure she left no word—no letter, no telegram, no word to her lady's maid?"

"Nothing. I spoke to Peggy MacLeod and Mrs. Duffey, the nurse. Other than the cook, those are all the servants we have."

"Had she her own maid?"

I shook my head. "She had one, but she was discharged more than a month ago. Peggy has been a sort of jack-of-all-trade in her stead."

His left eyebrow jutted. "That is singular. Who discharged her?"

"Why, Julia. Something about a missing ten pound note…I didn't really ask her the details. I left domestic matters to her." I felt a flush of embarrassment at that. Of course, the real reason was that I was too busy with my practise and dropping in on him, trying to find some middle ground on the new life I was weary of and the old life that I missed.

But he merely nodded, his eyes not having left me. I remember the day he would have leapt over the setée to stop a client from leaving. But it wasn't aged he appeared to me or lethargic anything of the sort. It almost seemed as if he were distracted.

Or unwilling.

And really, why not? When Julia came into my life, I had tried to distance myself from him, from what he and I had been. I had never the nerve to ask what he thought of Julia and I, and even if I had he would have been too much of a gentleman to tell me. It would have been cruel to do so. Perhaps it was cruel for me to ask him to find my wife when no doubt that was the last thing he wanted to do.

"Uh, Holmes," I unwillingly began.

He was scribbling something at his desk. "Yes?"

"I shouldn't force you to do this. I mean, if you are uncomfortable…Perhaps it was wrong of me to ask you. After all"—

He jerked up, ripped the paper from the pad and stuffed it into his pocket. "My dear Watson," he said, slapping my shoulder. "If you have need of me, I would never refuse you." He dashed out the door, taking the stairs two at a time.

I sighed. No. He would not.

/x/

He was out the door before I could utter a single word. At first, I was unsure if I was expected to follow, but as there was no yell of 'Watson! Come!' back up the stairs, I assumed I was not. So I waited. After several uncomfortable minutes in my old chair, Mr. Robert Hudson's wife appeared and asked if I would like some tea. I wished with all my heart that I could will her into a more familiar landlady. I told her I would not, thank you, and she went away.

I felt a bit awkward wandering about my old flat (although in fairness I had lived here a great many more years than the current residents). But after ten, than twenty, than thirty minutes passed, I was completely bored. Almost burglar like, I climbed the stairs to my old bedroom. I cannot say why, or what I expected to find, but there was little there. My mattress lay stripped of its linens. My old dressing table was shoved to the corner, the chipped pitcher and basin still atop it. I ran my finger over the deep scratch on the surface where Holmes had burst in one morning whilst I was shaving, causing me to drop my razor in surprise. I smiled at the memory.

The same heavy plaid curtains covered my small window. And from it, my eye was drawn across the wall opposite to where a mathematical equation had once been written in blue wax crayon. Not my own of course, although I never did learn if it was the small detective or the full size version who had been responsible. I had been a bit agitated at the time, and I had stormed downstairs to confront the culprit. But once below, I fell prey to Holmes and Josh so virulently arguing the merits of autodidactism verses a standard British education that I had instantly forgotten to be angry. After failing to remove all the stain on the wall, I thereafter hid the mark behind the framed photograph of Her Majesty that had always hung in my room.

Again, I smiled.

Back downstairs, I resisted the urge to see Holmes's bedroom. Heaven knows why I had this strange desire for when we lived together I rarely went in there. Even after our relationship changed, I still never entered uninvited. And invitations were few and far between. I was never overtly sentimental, but a part of me still wished to see it one last time. Were the framed pictures of his criminals still on the walls? Was the floor still covered with discarded papers and books, the ashtrays overflowing with cigarettes and pipe plugs? The tiny bed that I had to once hide behind when the devil Culverton Smith appeared would be there still. He and I would never lay upon it again, motionless. Unspeaking.

I swallowed heavily, a bit angry at myself. What was the good in thinking of all of this? I should be a man and focus my mind on where it needed to be. But I couldn't.

An hour had passed since Holmes had left. The Grandfather clock chimed the hour and the noise nearly made me jump. How strange and silent Baker Street was alone! I could not remember the last time I was there by myself. It was an odd feeling—this silence, these strange empty shadows moving on the walls, on the worn carpeting. A cold tingling sensation drifted down the skin of my back and I jumped to my feet, eager to find something, anything to do.

I wandered over to Holmes's desk. For years, he had kept the drawer to it locked, the key on his watch chain. He had kept my chequebook safe there, (safe from me and the occasional black mood that made me eager to gamble). Now it was un-locked. I had to look.

No doubt, reader, you will have little difficulty in guessing what I was searching for. Was it there? That damned letch.

It was not there. Irene Adler's photograph was, jammed into a corner. Part of a false nose and beard. A small notebook with chemistry equations. A set of brass knuckles. A pocket-knife. And a stack of letters. But the cocaine, the needle were both gone.

I breathed a sigh of relief so loud I wouldn't doubt it's audibility down-stairs.

"Thank God, Holmes," I muttered, meaning it from the bottom of my heart.

I glanced again at the letters just prior to shutting the drawer. Something about them caught my eye and I quickly realised what it was. The familiar scrawl. Curly, un-even script. After a glance over my shoulder, I snatched up the entire pile. There were more than thirty of them.

A true gentleman would, of course, never read another's mail, not even if those letters were from his own son. But I had to know what was in them. I was far from a logician, but I did possess a small amount of intuition. And for some reason, I suspected that I may find some answers there.

I began to read. I started with the earliest letters, dated more than five years ago, and read words in a hand that would give even a doctor a headache. I read, and through Josh's words I saw my son grow from an observant little child to a quite brilliant boy. But as his intellect grew something within him clearly shrank. His innocence.

When he's seven he sounds like a son of John Watson:

'_The boys are all huger than me. They are like giants in the grimm fairy stories Papa would read to me. Their feet are like wooden padles good for smashing us smallest boys and some of them have hair in strange places. I am afraid but not to much afraid. I only wish that I was back in baker street with you. Have you finished the poisens yet? Oh I had a thought on that. What about different snake poisens?'_

And then eight:

_'I hope that you are all right and not ill. Your writing was shakey and uneven—so I know you have been ill. I hope that if you are to bad you will get Papa to take care of you.'_

By ten my heart was in my throat:

'_I know that you said I should not be cross with him but I still think that we were better when it was he and you and I all together in Baker street. And I think that Julia does not much like me. When it is just she and I together she doesn't much speak to me. I will try to be a better man as you told me I should but it is so hard and some times I wish I could just leave and run very far and never come back.'_

John Sherlock had recently turned twelve. I had sent him a card, a fiver and a letter containing my hardiest congratulations. I had yet to hear back from him. But there was a letter for Holmes that had arrived only days ago. When I finished reading it, I nearly cried. It distresses me to admit it, but it is so. I won't bore you by repeating it word for word, as indeed I doubt I could recall it verbatim. But one passage sticks in my old mind like tar on a hot summer day.

'_I worry for Papa, Uncle. I worry what will happen when she leaves. I know you are not convinced that she will, but I am. When I was home last, she avoided me completely. She seems reluctant with my sister. She gives terse answers to Papa. I think he is too absorbed in his practise and the baby to notice, but I did. She is a person not designed to bear an intolerable situation. I think he will need you soon.'_

The letter fell from my hand. I quickly picked it back up, as if afraid someone would catch me at my misdeed. Perhaps that thought put a fear of God into me, for I jumped to my feet and shoved the letters back into the drawer, slamming it so hard that the handle knocked violently. I, myself, shook slightly. _He's barely twelve, _I thought. _How can a twelve-year-old boy…_know _these things? _When I was twelve…but then again, my son was on a level quite different from me.

_'I think he will need you soon.' _What the Devil did that even mean? For moral support? To find Julia? How could I know? I wished I had him here with me now. And not even really to ask him. Or to rebuke him. Simply to speak to him, quietly. To see his mother's eyes look into mine, those charming fat cheeks break into a knowing grin. Soon, too soon, nature would cover that chubby face with hair. Already he was growing into his large head, his spindly legs developing the first sign of musculature. And although he was still short for his age, I could signs of the man he would be. His golden hair had darkened. His Adam's apple protruded a bit. He wrote letters that even a man would not know what to make of.

I heard the front door slam just then, and I flew to resume my seat. I had left the sitting room door open when returning from my excavation upstairs, so I could hear Holmes and Mrs. Robert Hudson speaking. No doubt he was confirming my continued presence. A few seconds later I heard him on the stairs. He was moving swiftly, taking them two at a time. Never was he so ageless as when on a case.

"Well, well, still here, are we?" He asked, fiddling with a pipe he had pulled from the pocket of his waistcoat. It was lit, and he was flopping onto the settée, slowly sucking on it before he looked up at me, eyebrows raised.

"Where else would I go?"

He gave a small shrug. "I would think home. To see if any messages had come in. Or to check on your child. Remember your nurse thinks you are at your consulting room."

"It hadn't even occurred to me," I answered truthfully.

He nodded, almost indifferently.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Well, where have you been? Have you discovered anything?" He was being exasperating and I was hardly in the mood.

"Just the train that she took. And where she most likely is."

I blinked, sure that I had misheard. "I beg your pardon?"

He was studying his pipe. It was a rather expensive, amber-tipped maple with silver fasteners. A birthday present from me about eight years ago. I hadn't recognised it at first as he rarely smoked it. Occasionally, he would take it down from the rack and finger it and I would feel a sudden burst of hopefulness. But more often than not, it would be switched out for the cherrywood, the briar or the revolting oily clay. I had no idea why now, of all times, he should be smoking this particular pipe.

I think he caught me staring at it. Taking it from his mouth, he slowly made his way over to the mantle and tapped the bowl into a tray. Then he spun around and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "You really had no need for me at all, doctor," said he, his voice curiously detached. "You could easily have found out what I did by a mere trip to Victoria Station. You knew that was her destination. You had the approximate time. There are a limited number of trains that she could have taken"—

"But"—

He would not let me speak, though, and waved his hands wildly. "Come now, Watson. An attractive, young, red-haired lady travelling unaccompanied and with a small army of luggage. How could she not be noticed? I merely went up to the first manly-looking porter I came across and inquired. Oh, yes, sir, of course he recalled the lady. Quite a lass. He hadn't had the good-fortune to assist the young lady with her bags, but he recalled the bloke who had. Another swarthy, hormonally charged gentleman was introduced to me. He vividly described assisting the 'bird' as he put it. She boarded the 10:47, bound for Dumfries."

"Scotland!" I expostulated. "She is going as far as that? Oh, but she never visits her father…he is in an institution for the aged. He is quite infirm and I have never even met him."

Holmes narrowed his eyes. "Why do you think she is going to Scotland to visit her father?"

I felt my neck flush. "Why else?"

"Hmm…I can hardly answer that. Yes. Not just yet," he seemed to be talking to himself, his finger to his lips and I could feel the pulse of his brain as it turned the situation over. For quite a long moment, he didn't speak. At one point, his eyes closed and his mouth became a thin, contemplative line. I waited in patience, trying to turn the situation over in my own mind. She was in Scotland. But not to see her father (as Holmes was apparently convinced). She had led me to believe she had no other family, neither kith nor kin anywhere else in that country. In fact, with the exception of the Robert Hudsons, she had no family here, either. And they were by no means close.

"Holmes," I ventured, feeling a strong need for action, to do anything rather than sit around as my friend was apparently comfortable negating me to do. "Would it do any good to speak to Mrs…er, Hudson? I doubt she would have went to her, but"—

Holmes suddenly jumped to his feet. "No, no. I must go with you to Chelsea. I am certain the final pieces will be found there. Come!"

/x/

Two minutes later, we were in a cab heading south and west. It occurred to me it would have been faster to take the Tube, but neither of us bothered. In fact, Holmes, unless he was in a specific hurry, was reluctant to employ any mode of transportation in the city other than train or cab. I think the privacy of the hansom appealed to him.

"Did it really not occur to you to go to Victoria yourself?" Holmes asked after a long silence. He studied my face with narrowed eyes, a sure sign he was in earnest about my reply, and not simply mocking me.

I thought about it before answering. After last night and not finding anything in Julia's room, my first instinct had been to come to him. When he put it that way, it would have been so simple for me to find her train and destination. But when one's world is crumbling around them, one seeks the assistance of friends and loved ones. When one's closest companion is Sherlock Holmes, the decision is not one to even ponder. "I thought to come to you. Nothing else occurred to me," I said.

He seemed to be searching for something in my eyes. After a moment he either found it or gave up, for he gave a terse nod, and spent the rest of the journey with chin on hand, watching as the river shrunk into a small, dirty grey line behind us.

/x/

When we walked in, it was quite apparent from the loud wailing that my daughter was awake and not in the sunniest of moods. Holmes flinched as he removed his hat but offered no comment. I apologised to him.

"She is teething right now," I explained. "First molar. Unfortunately for her, she inherited the large Watsonian teeth set in a rather thick gum. Nurse finds it hard to settle her some days. I'll go and check on her, if you don't mind."

I had thought that Holmes would avoid a nursery at all costs. Even when Josh was small, he left most of the more unpleasant tasks to either me or Mrs. Hudson. When the boy needed help in the toilet or when he scrapped his knee after falling down, it was I who had to set matters right. Holmes was interested only in the intellectual facilities of the child. Over time that did change somewhat. But it was my opinion he viewed him a something like an heir, someone to be trained rather than raised. I could never imagine him showing even the slightest concern for an infant, even if it was my child. And a girl at that. But as I limped toward the baby's room (as I aged my leg sometimes ached in stressful situations) he stayed right beside me, hands folded behind his back. He could have been taking a guided tour of the house.

Nurse was trying to quiet Lily in the rocking chair, but my daughter would have none of it. Her face fell in relief when she saw me. "Oh, sir, am I ever glad you've come home. I cannot do a thing for her today. She simply won't settle."

"That tooth again?"

"Aye, she keeps trying to chew on her fist, poor little darling. It's hurting her dreadful."

I picked her up from Nurse's lap and took my handkerchief to wipe her face, something she normally liked. She was fond of waving it and saying 'Look, Da, flag,' or some such thing. Today, though, she merely swatted at it, rubbing at her cheek.

"I'm sorry, darling," I told her. "I know your mouth hurts. Would you like your rubber?"

She shook her head, her tufts of brown hair flapping about. "No, no Da." Her poor face was sticky with tears and beet red.

"Here," said Holmes, reaching into his waistcoat and extracting something. Before I could even see what he was about, he had taken the amber-tipped pipe he had been smoking just prior and placed it in the baby's crying mouth. Lily, surprised, bit down, her brown eyes growing large with shock. She looked up and him, her chin still shaking, her expression one of infantine incredulity. But she stopped wailing almost immediately. She turned to me, her little jaw working up and down on the pipe.

"Holmes…" I began, but was unsure how to finish my statement. I adjusted the baby on my hip.

"Amber is a natural pain remedy," he said as if what he had just done was perfectly obvious. He turned to Nurse. "Clove oil. A few drops applied directly to the gums."

Poor Nurse appeared to be in shock. She looked from her charge, chomping on the amber tip of the detective's pipe, and then to Holmes. "Sir?"

"I understand chamomile is also advisable. But I have seen first-hand that clove oil works well for all dental pain." He bowed slightly to Nurse, smiled briefly at my daughter and tapped her under the chin. He did not move to take the pipe back, which was slowly being covered with large quantities of drool. "I would think Mrs. Watson's room is at the other end, am I not correct, doctor?" Without waiting for me to respond, he continued with his tour.

With a small shake of my head, I kissed the top of my daughter's head before handing her back to Nurse. For a moment, I pictured John Sherlock sitting at a desk in his short pants, stocking feet kicking at the legs, as he easily defined the tortuous life-path of his father with a few sheets of letterhead and a leaky pen. God above, please spare me the same fate with this child, I thought. Women may be the gentler sex, but five years of marriage to Julia Hudson had taught me that if there was anything of her mother in this girl, I would be up against a will of steel.

/x/

"This bed has been slept in," was the first thing Holmes said when I walked into Julia's room. He was systematically surveying the room, his cold grey eyes studying it as if he expected it to speak to him.

"I slept in it," I admitted. For some reason, the admission embarrassed me slightly.

"I see. You thought to search the room for any clue, eventually grew weary and fell asleep on her bed."

"Er, yes."

"And what did you find?" He was standing near her dressing table, holding the photograph of her and I and the children, taking on Lily's first birthday. There was an expression of grim impatience on his face. His godson wore a similar look in the photograph.

"Nothing," I said. "At least, nothing of any importance."

" 'Nothing?'" He glanced at me, throwing me something small that flashed in the light. I barely caught it. "You would say that her wedding ring is 'nothing?'"

"Well, not nothing, of course. I saw it, but…I mean…" I cleared my throat. "Is it a good sign or a bad sign? Why would she leave it behind if she were…_leaving _me." God, I wanted a drink right then. The words stuck in my throat and I barely got them out. Leaving me. What on Earth did the woman want? A divorce? How the Devil was I supposed to afford that? What if she meant to return? Was that why she left the ring? My head was swimming with unanswered questions. _ I need whiskey, _ I thought, rubbing at my mouth. I wanted to be drunk very badly.

Holmes reached out and gripped my arm. He did not do this in what I would call a particularly friendly manner, but rather roughly, as if he were irritated with me. Indeed, he wore a rather annoyed frown on his face that seemed to be saying _you did this to yourself. _But of course, he would not have said such a thing. "Sit down, doctor," he ordered me, pulling me slightly toward her vanity chair. "Do you require some water? Or something stronger?"

I shook my head sadly. He took out his silver cigarette case, tapped it several times in one hand and then removed two of his strong hand-rolled Turkish blends. He placed both in his mouth, lit them and then handed me one. I could feel the slight moisture from his lips as I put it in my mouth and let the vice settle my nerves. "Thank you."

"Not taking the ring can indicate several things," said Holmes, slowly inhaling. "First, that she is not in need of money. Although I am far from an expert in jewellery, I would estimate that she would still get £20 for it at any decent pawn shop.2 Not a figure a woman with no discernable income could leave behind on principle. Had she her own money?"

I shrugged. "A small annuity from her father. Not much."

He narrowed his eyes. "Did she ask you for money? For things beyond dress, toiletries and normal household expenses?"

"All the time."

"Did you inquire as to what she needed these funds for?"

I felt like such a fool right then. I'm sure my neck was red. Theatre tickets, cab fares, a new frock…all the hats in the world will still not equate to all the pound, fiver and tenners I handed over to her. Her taste in fashion was not overtly expensive, I would say, and although she enjoyed shopping as much as any woman, she must have been setting some aside from the household money. For how long? "So she's been intending to leave for some time." I chose to ignore what he already knew was the answer to his question.

"Let us think. What is the earliest you can recall a change of temperament in her? Perhaps a sudden disinterest? Even a furtive streak—especially with money and where she might have been?"

The question did not require much thought. From almost the day Lily Rose had arrived, Julia had lost her vivacity. At first, she was tired and kept to her room. But to me, this was normal. Women frequently developed depressive moods after the birth of children, any medical man could tell one that. But it normally took only time, a steady diet, the return of her figure and the baby to bond with to see her right. That really hadn't happened in my wife's case. She enjoyed watching _me _with the baby. She would touch her, sometimes hold her. But as soon as she got her strength back, she seemed to lose even that basic interest in her child. She returned to her theatre trips, visiting, shopping and left Nurse to tend to the child. But as a doctor, I had seen that some women had less maternal feelings (for lack of a better term) for their offspring than others. I couldn't expect every woman to be like Mary, with whom I had to strong-hand Josh out of her arms for the first six months of his life, so happy was she to have this baby.

"Shortly after giving birth," I told him. "In fact, from the time of her arrival she has seemed changed."

Holmes considered this. "So we reason that she had a minimum of sixteen months in which to save money." He paused for one or two seconds, his steel mind computing. "She will have 70 to as much as 100, maybe £110, if we consider she probably saved an extra £5 a month, factoring in her father's money. That is a sum a young woman _could _live on, but a woman who has developed a certain lifestyle these last five years will find it intolerable after a few months. She must—and not doubt will—find work."

I was barely listening. I believe I nodded. But Holmes evidentially did not require an answer, as he snubbed out his cigarette on my wife's vanity, and began to tear up her room. I knew better than to ask questions.

He started in the wardrobe, throwing the few remaining garments over his shoulder. I watched, wondering if this was necessary to his search or if his opinion of Julia compelled him too. The latter, no doubt. His hand swooped over the top shelf, but it sent nothing down except clouds of dust. He snorted, wiping his hands on the bed quilt. I felt myself start to smile, but quickly stifled it.

A few old receipts, some cosmetics, a ticket stub and a single peacock feather soon joined the clothing. Watching the damn garish thing slowly fluttering to the ground, I nearly burst out laughing. There was something so intensely ridiculous in this that I had to either laugh or cry. Holmes caught my eye, saw me biting my lip, and broke out into a wide grin. "Shameful, Watson. Absolutely shameful."

That made me laugh even harder. That stupid feather, floating on a sea of dust, on top of all those abandoned dresses. Who knew how much of my hard-earned money lay in that pile? The abandoned clothes—abandoned, like me.

I felt the tears fighting the back of my eyes. I think it was a combination of Josh's letter, the ridiculousness of having Sherlock Holmes here in my wife's room, and the realisation that, once again, I was going to be the only parent to my child. Good God, how wretched I had been to my first born! How would I destroy this one? I had lost my son his mother and now…now I had done the same to my daughter.

I put my hands to my face. The first and only time I had cried in front of Holmes had been during his return. I had just lost Mary. And then he appeared, right in my own consulting room, a move that had caused my nerves to explode and a well of anger to bubble-up within me so completely I never realised it existed.

Men should not feel such depths of emotion. It is unmanly, ridiculous that they cannot control themselves like women. But then again, what sort of man takes another for his lover? Why shouldn't a bugger act like a woman? The thought—that word—made my skin crawl. I felt my stomach lurch.

He did not hug me this time. Thank God, because the last thing in the world I wanted right then was a man touching me, even Holmes. He studied me for a moment and seemed to come to this realisation. His rigid expression and metallic eyes softened, but he was as composed as ever. I think he wanted to touch my arm. I could see the very slight tremor in his hand, but he remained where he was, standing by the far side of the bed. "I'm sorry," he said. His voice was oddly quiet. "I truly am. If you would like me to leave"—

Vigorously, I shook my head, mopping at my face with my handkerchief. No, I did not wish him to leave. There had been enough of that. In fact, had I not done so in the first place…

I opened my mouth to tell him to stay. But the words that came out were so totally dissimilar that I surprised myself as well as Holmes. "Agnosco veteris vestigial flammae3."

Really I muttered them more than spoke them. Where they came from, I had not the least idea. Latin was never amongst my better subjects neither as boy nor man at University. I concentrated on the medical necessities of the language and promptly forgot all the verse I had been forced to translate and recite. Or, apparently, _almost _all the verse.

Holmes cocked his head, a motion frequent to the man when he was turning over a problem in his brain. "Watson," said he. "I wonder if I may be permitted to ask you a question…that is a bit impertinent."

I flinched in way of answering. He took this for acquiescence.

"Do you really want Mrs. Wa…._her _to come back? Or do you merely not want to face the embarrassment of a wife who has left you?"

Five years ago, I would have punched a man who said such a thing to me. In fact, I had once hit Holmes for something equally impertinent and even more ridiculous once.4 But time had tempered me, and I barely cared. In fact, he was probably right. So much so that I answered without thinking, merely saying whatever came into my mind before anything rational could hold my tongue.

"How can I want my child to lose her mother? But if she is done with me than…well, what can I do? I'll not force her, Holmes."

It was his turn to flinch. I think the word 'force' may have caused it. We both cleared our throats, embarrassed. Holmes's colourless face gained just a twinge of scarlet and he looked away. "Hardly an answer to my question," he said.

I shrugged. "It's the best one I can give."

His eyes narrowed in a way that never ceased to unnerve me slightly. It was the expression he wore when he was reading my thoughts. "I certainly know that you care very much about society's opinion of you. Tongues will wag, it will cost you patients, your children may be ostracised. You will not deny that this will devastate you."

"Yes," I admitted. "No doubt it will."

He frowned and brought his hand to his face, rubbing his chin. I thought I saw the smallest of smiles appear on his face, but I couldn't be certain. In a sudden movement, he picked up the telephone on Julia's night-table.

"Hello," he said. "Operator? Yes, I need long-distance. Dumfries railway station, please. Yes, thank you." Placing the cradle of the device in the crook of his neck, he waited.

"What are you on about?" I asked, but he ignored me.

In silence we waited, Holmes sitting on my wife's bed, drumming his fingers on the stand and me studying him, trying to figure out his plan. But as usual, I could not. There was nothing to fear, I knew. There was simply to wait and let his genius emerge.

I hadn't long to wait.

"Yes, hello? To whom am I speaking? MacDougal? Indeed. This is Superintendent Chaffey with Scotland Yard. I need to speak with the station manager, please. I believe his name is Rhodes. Yes. Yes, thank you." He spoke in a completely authoritative voice, not unlike his own, but in a more simple and Yard-er like brogue. Were I the man on the other line, I would not have known that I was speaking to my friend.

"Hello, Rhodes? Superintendent Chaffey here. Yes. You received my telegram? Oh, yes, I know, my boy, easier to call, but we must be by the book. Paper-trial, you know. Have you the luggage? Oh, well, I had no doubt that you would, my boy, no doubt at all. Yes. Hmm, I see. Supurb, supurb. Jolly good…"

This queer little conversation continued for several moments with Holmes in his 'Yarder' voice purring peculiarly into the device, a smug expression on his face. When at last he was finished (a 'Queen and country thanks you m'boy' as he hung-up), he turned to me with a blistering smile.

"Well, well, Watson, I told you some years ago that we were In the midst of the greatest century yet known to mankind. This device and those like it show the conveniences our children will have in their lives that we have barely known. Sometimes I wish that I were a young man…just think what I could accomplish if I had the next twenty or thirty years to immerse myself in the newest weaponry available to the detective. John Sherlock could have advantages that I never dreamed of at his age."

The mention of my son made me nervous, remembering his letters. Although something in Holmes's voice made his last statement sound more wishful than factual. I shook my head. "Who the Devil is 'Superintendent Chaffey'?" I asked. "And why are you parading as a Yarder?"

I was surprised when he laughed a little. At first I thought he was laughing at my stupidity, that it was so obvious what the plan was that I should have known, but Holmes slapped my shoulder. "Chaffey is merely a _nom de guerre_. To gather information. In my experience civil servants often respond well to the established pecking order. I could have sent the telegram in my own name—and of course, there is the chance it will be recognised and I will have to answer a slew of inane questions. But by merely sending a telegram gram from a professed Yarder'superintendent' asking to hold a certain young lady's baggage, I dealt with no opposition whatsoever."

"Baggage…you mean Julia's?"

"Of course."

"But why, Holmes? What good does having her bags do?"

This time he did look at me as if I were slightly daft. "Do we or do we not desire to know her location?"

I blinked several times. "Oh…yes. But…you mean, you know where she is?" I felt my pulse race slightly.

He shrugged. "The bags are to be held at the station until called for. Not surprising. This suggests that she has no permanent plans. A young lady on her own with all that luggage would do precisely this. I told Mr. Rhodes that I suspect the young lady of a…certain crime and will be there with the necessary warrant. Naturally, he was eager to help."

"Naturally." I cleared my throat. "So what now?"

It should be noted here, and very likely reader, you will have already noticed this, but I was not at all eager to dash off to Scotland after my wife. Most husbands would have jumped in the nearest cab, and sped off red-faced and hot after what they considered 'theirs'. Julia had never expressed any 'woman suffragist' ideas as is becoming popular these days, but she was very much opinionated and aware of her own mind. In fact, in our whirl-a-wind courtship and marriage, we had had little time to discuss our views on marriage, the ideas of home and career, husbands and wives. I assumed, wrongly it turned out, that as young as she was, she was still impressionable and would go along with whatever I believed.

Clearly, of the two of us, who was the more naïve? On the train to Paris, where we honeymooned, one of the first things she had said was, "I hope, John, that you are not like some men who will put me away like some pretty play-thing, only to trot me out to impress your friends when it suits you."

"My dear! Of course not!"

She smiled primly. "I will do my best to be a good wife to you. And a mother to your son. But I will not be shut in my house, however gorgeous it is, never to be allowed to see the light of day."

"Then you do not believe in the wife being the angel in the home5? I asked, more in jest than anything.

The smiled practically melted from her rose-coloured lips. "I think, my husband, if you desire an angel, you should look in a church and not a home."

And perhaps I should have at that.

"I don't know, Holmes." I said.

His eyes narrowed.

"I cannot. I don't know if it is…indifference." _Or fear, _I told myself. "Or anger. I _am_ angry. And I have a right to be, damnit! She left me with an infant and no rhyme or reasons! What am I supposed to tell my daughter when she is old enough to understand? That I have no idea what became of her mother?" Angrily, I shoved my hands in my pockets and let out a huff. "It is ridiculous, isn't it? I should not have drug you into this at all. And now I…"

"What is it?" He asked. "What is wrong?"

"Josh," I said. His eyes flashed concern. "No, nothing is wrong with him. While you were…I mean, while I was…_alone _at Baker Street, I found some of his letters to you. Yes, I realise how caddish it is to read another's mail, but I have done many things I am not proud of over the years. Most of them concern you."

A smile whipped across the thin lips. "The latest one bothers you, I take it?"

"How, Holmes? How could he know such things? That Julia would leave, that I would need you? He is far too…" I could not think of any appropriate adjectives. "Well, whatever he is, it is far too much for a twelve-year old."

"Some would say…he is very much like his father."

"His father? Me?" I laughed. "How the Devil is he anything like me?" _If I didn't know better I would have questioned his paternity_.

Holmes glared at me awhile. Then, rising from the bed, the look on his face turned from cruel to amused. He paced about, circling me. "Well…they have not very much in common," said he. "And of course, I am hardly observant about such things. Let me see…oh, this is very difficult"—

"Come now,"—

He held up a hand. "They both tend to interrupt, for one thing. But I am sure I have come across more favourable traits. Ah! Yes. I remember now. _Loyalty_…_bravery_…_decency_…trust…"

Now it was my turn to stare.

"They are both far too dedicated to certain peoples who do not deserve such fidelity."

I opened my mouth.

He stopped in front of me. Looked me directly in the eye. "Without them, I would have no-one. Now, some would call such devotion lunacy and not necessarily a trait one should aspire toward. But I am somewhat proud of their lesser as well as their greater genetic gifts."

Again, my mouth opened. A warmth spread through me. Despite our relationship, Holmes was still one to lean more toward criticism than praise. It was very nice to hear. So nice that all I could manage was to blink a few times and gape about like a fish out of water.

"Um…th-thank you."

He gave me a terse nod. "It is as much as you deserve."

Deserve. What did I deserve? I knew. I deserved nothing. Holmes was the one who deserved my praise. Granted, I had published his laurels many a time over and all who knew me knew of my admiration for him. And indeed, some knew it a little too well. My sister. Lestrade, perhaps. Parks. Maybe even dear old Mrs. Hudson, gone to a better place. Should I number my wife among these? I didn't see how.

But even so, should it matter? Was I ever asking the right question? I was worried for myself, for my sake, for my reputation. What of Holmes's feelings? When was the last time I had considered them?

It had been nearly a decade since Moriarty and Reichenbach. And we had gone from flatmates to colleagues, friends, devoted friends to lovers and then back to…what were we now?

He had saved my son from my sister. And I had left him.

He had stood by my side, wordless, as I married away from him. Twice. And I had left him.

He had confessed his soul to me, shown me his past, why he was the man he is. And I had left him.

He had given me every opportunity to bind myself to him permanently—to know him, to protect him and he me, to be as much as family as was possible to be.

And I had left him.

/x/

1 According to _Arthur Conan Doyle: A Life in Letters _Sir Arthur read at least one of 'Miss Austen's' novels and thought them 'very good.' Really good book if you haven't read it.

2 Truth be told, I have no idea how much a ring should have cost at the turn of the century, despite a fruitless search. Any experts in Victorian/Edwardian finances out there, chat me up!

3 I feel once more the scars of the old flame

4 I.e. chapter 21, some years ago…lol

5 An idea derived from a Coventry Patmore poem that a woman was supposed to be 'an angel in the home' and that her sphere should consist of submitting to and loving her husband and raising her children.


	35. Chapter 35

November 1903

He went to her. I was not there to witness it; years later I would only have part of the story from Holmes, but even in my imagination the colours are so vivid that I must allow them to flow from my pen. My feelings for Holmes, however one may want to classify them, are exemplified by his actions in seeking out Julia. It is something he would not have done ten years earlier. It is something he would not have done for anyone else.

Sherlock Holmes stood in the shadows of a porch, waiting. He was dressed as himself in evening attire, though the remains of a false beard and nose were tucked away in a pocket. He had been to a production of a drama he had never heard of, something called _Petals on the Breeze. _In his seat in the small theatre, he sat through two and a half of the most horrendously boring, mind-numbing hours of his life. A badly lit stage of bumbling actors, clichéd dialogue and ludicrous costumes had him wondering if the entire thing was meant to be a farce. If it was, no-one laughed.

The only saving grace was a tall, lovely young woman whose red-hair flowed over her bare shoulders. She drifted across the stage in a way that personified the title of this atrocity, her voice clear, inviting. Holmes could sense the general approval of the _Cousin Maribel _character when she was onstage. The woman clucked about her costume—only a whore showed off more skin. The men applauded her back on stage for a second bow.

Kirkarran rarely saw such a spectacle. It was a small hamlet, just outside Dumfries. There was little to recommend it, save a few quiet beaches and a rather nice open air market that was home to circuses, fairs, speeches, games of all sort and the occasional keek show1. It also had a small theatre, run by a troupe that offered one of the few cultural opportunities to the locals. They performed everything from Shakespeare to Gilbert and Sullivan. Admission was inexpensive and expectations were low. It was not a place one would think of to hide, but that would pre-suppose that one was hiding.

Holmes had quickly determined where Miss Findlay (as she was going by) was most likely staying. Kirkarran offered no hotels and it was unlikely she could afford both the rates and travel costs to and from Dumfries. One boarding house advertised rooms to _Unmarried Christian Gentlemen _only. Another would rent to women, but given the suspicious demeanour of the proprietress, he thought it unlikely that an actress would meet her qualifications for admittance. Therefore, with options limited, she would have to rely on the charity of friends. The most likely candidates would be the other women employed by the theatre, and of these limited numbers, one, a Mrs. McKay seemed the most similar to Julia Hudson in age and temperament.

Her flat was above a dry-goods store that a bachelor brother owned. Holmes could hear the squeal of the floorboards, the loud boorish laughter emanating from an open window. When he desired it, he found it easy to conceal his presence. Right at that moment, he felt as though he could be standing in the very bedroom of this fellow and still not be noticed. The darkness enveloped him that night; he may as well have been invisible.

His body leaned dangerously against the rotting rail. There would be approximately seven minutes until the lady appeared, and he had only his own thoughts to occupy him till then.

He closed his eyes.

As usual, the pictures flooded his brain like a wave washing over a million grains of sand. October—a rather bleak day, some rain and mist, a heavy stench roaring in from the river. Watson, with his unshaven face and tightly tied boot-laces, a map of despondence painting every misfortune upon his face. He can read that face.

He had known for some time that Watson wished to be back at his side once again. Perhaps he missed the adventure, the unending days spent untangling the wicked webs that men and women trapped themselves in. He had become a bit more complacent as he aged, but Holmes knew his soldier's bones longed to be sent on assignment. For years he had found fulfilment as the great detective's human side.

Holmes was vain enough to think that Watson may even miss _him._

Because _he_ did. He would never admit such a weakness, he denied it even to himself, but he knew it was so. For some nights he would fold himself into his wicker chair and stare at the creases in its twin across from him. He had endured decades of silence in his youth. From the time he lost his sister until manhood there was hardly a whisper. Once, he would have preferred it as such. Now it was maddening.

Strong teeth bit down hard on his pipe. No amount of staring was going to make that body appear in the chair where it belonged, however much he might wish it.

No.

He snapped his eyes open. It would not do to think of such things now. He must force his mind to the present, he must not allow the emotional cracks that had been breaking in his constitution for a decade now to further flood his body. Men should always have the ability to navigate a conversation—even a confrontation—down the intended route. But he would shortly be dealing with a woman. And their emotions were libel to take one down any sort of untamed river of thought, leaving one back-peddling against the tide to try and restore logic and order. This was a point of fact he could not give in on. Mycroft or Watson or the whole of London could think him a misogynist if they liked, but the fact remained women as a whole could not go from point A to point B without a lot of emotional or pointless detours, both in action and thought.

And if there was ever a more pointless, emotional act than this undertaking of Julia Hudson, he could not recall what.

With a grunt of displeasure, he crossed his arms and pressed down against his ribcage as hard as he could. He was trying to cause pain. Better to focus on physical pain than mental.

Down the street, the sound of footfalls reached his keen hearing. A hand immediately went to the railing and gripped it tightly. The weather was fair for late autumn but he could feel the night breeze on his face. It carried the smell of rhododendron bushes, old paint chips, manure. And just a subtle amount of narcissus flower and vanilla. Her very distinctive perfume was the first piece of data he had stored away upon meeting her. That, and the noticeable effect upon the doctor's pulse.

It remained too dark for him to see as yet, but he could hear that the footfalls were two women (high, sharp footfalls) one tall, agile (quick, longer strides) the other shorter, not heavy, but more out of training (the shoes dragged against the pavement slightly). But the heavier steps were slightly ahead of the other, she was leading her companion who clearly did not know the way well enough yet. Holmes checked his watch under the dim gas light—almost two minutes ahead of schedule. He frowned. And that was why there must be no grit in the instrument of the mind. But soon enough he could see the red hair that on a dark night looked like a torch. Impossible not to notice it, impossible to maintain much anonymity whilst possessing it. _How fortunate for the male sex, _he thought. _Most males, that is._

They were nearly at the door before they saw him. Mrs. McKay started, gripping her companion's arm. "My God, there's a man just there!"

Holmes had the pleasure of witnessing Mrs. Watson's reaction. Her eyes went wide and her mouth dropped. But just as quickly, the jaw firmed up as if the bone had been replaced by a steel rod.

"I'll deal with this, Nan. You go inside."

Mrs. McKay looked reluctant, but she disappeared into the store. Although not very far inside, judging from the lack of footsteps. He pushed away a smile and turned to his adversary whose words flew at him with a fury he had fully expected.

"What are you doing here? This is absurd, Mr. Holmes! How dare you track me down like I was...I was some _common_ _criminal_!"

Holmes believed he had reason to be satisfied. He had struck the appropriate emotional chord. He bowed slightly. "My apologies for having distressed you. Rest assured, _common_ is never a word I would attribute to you, madam. As to my presence, I believe you are aware of my professional services? I was asked to employ them in regards to a missing wife and mother." Not a complete truth but true enough.

Her face blanched. "Where is John?"

"I believe he is in London. At least, I have no knowledge of his being elsewhere."

This statement seemed to calm her. Her eyes closed for a moment, and the detective bit back his distaste at her cowardice. Afraid to face her own husband! And rightly so, in his opinion. When she spoke again, she was far more composed. "I wonder if you would be so good as to take a brief stroll with me, Mr. Holmes? Just there, down to the main road, perhaps?"

Sherlock Holmes acquiesced with another cold bow, and, folding his arms behind his back, carefully fixed his expression to one of detached ambiguity. As for the lady, still in her absurd costume and a long black coat, she looked like some Dickensian spectre sent to lead him down the path of charity and love for his fellow man. The hiss of the gaslights seemed to disapprove of them from above. That alone, save for an occasional dog's angry bark, was all the noise they encountered. It was a noiselessness that he knew he must soon satisfy himself to. London's all-hours would be behind him forever. "If you are concerned about Mrs. McKay overhearing, I should think we are far enough away now. Now, what have you to say for yourself?"

"Only to ask why you are here. Have you come to browbeat me into returning to London? Is that why John sent you instead of coming himself?"

_Sent _him. As if he were a messenger boy. His distaste for the lady was growing by leaps and bounds. "I can assure you that my purpose in coming here was most definitely not to force anyone to do anything against their will." He paused. He knew the real reason. To find out the truth. Looking her directly in the eye, he said, "Pray, do you even imagine _I_ would want you to return to him, _Mrs. _Watson?"

And so he knew. He knew by the acidic expression that splashed across her face. A look of poison. By the way her gloved hand immediately took aim at his face. He caught it and held it in his powerful grip. "That will not do. We are both civilised adults and will behave accordingly."

She pulled away. "You are a _vile, disgusting _man and hardly civilised, Mr. Holmes."

"I will not deny you have the right to think so. No doubt were I in your place, I would think much the same." He walked on, feeling an intense need to move. He didn't care if she followed him or not. He realised now that he was the reason she had left. His inability to control himself had cost Watson a chance at happiness. And more so, he had cost a child her mother. Having never known a mother's love himself, it was a pain he knew can well shape one's future.

But it was then that she said something unforgivable. He heard her call after him. "It was Josh who gave you away. I would never have suspected if not for he—but now I wonder, Mr. Holmes—was it you who told him to tell me? Surely you would have more motive than the boy. I must tell you that I think it completely repulsive that you could use him that way. For your own sordid need to...to _keep _John to yourself."

His hand twitched. Slowly, he turned around. His mouth opened.

She backed up, her eyes widening. Even in the solid dark, the white sparks were clear. She knew she had said too much.

But when he spoke, it was with complete equanimity. He would not give in to anger, even on this point. "If you wish to accuse someone, it must be me. But you will leave the boy out of this. He is innocent, completely so. Whatever he may have told you was against my explicit wishes. You and I do not know each other well, few in fact know me, regardless of how I am portrayed to the public. But I would never"—he paused. "I would never sacrifice him. Not toward any end."

They had reached the end of the pavement. Kirkarran, like many small to medium-sized Scottish hamlets, still had not found the means of paving its roads. It was a sad sight—worn nearly to ruin by deep ruts, the lack of rain and a thick growth of vegetation peaking through every slit and crack. Holmes stopped, stared. Beyond the road there was nothing. A vast empty field. A few stunted trees perhaps. Crickets, birds, the occasional fox and squirrel, other rodents. One could walk for days and not meet another person.

That was his childhood. Vast amounts of emptiness. Days spent gazing out of wet glass, studying, until he knew every crack in the frame, every splinter out of place. Could name every type of fauna or flora that grew within his field of vision. No-one came to see him, save his sister. He could hear how loud his own breathing was. The sound of his boots on the floor was deafening.

Soon, it would be so again. But with one important difference. This time it was his choice. He had told Julia Hudson that few knew him, but that was a lie. No-one did. Not even Watson. Not even the boy. They might think that they did, but like the great masses that eagerly devoured tales of the Master, they were deceiving themselves. He had been acting a part for so long that he felt like two people—except in a rare twist of fate, it was the true self that was in danger of taking over the character.

And after all these years, he was looking forward to allowing it to take place by burning the script.

He turned to Julia. She could fool these strangers quite easily. She could fly across a stage and chirp like some happy canary, laugh as if life were some merry bowl of cherries. But he could see the faint black lines that cosmetics didn't cover under the eyes. Subtle irregularities on the teeth indicative of grinding. A slight tremor of the fingers. Constant lip-licking.

She was quite the actress. And she was lost.

He offered her his arm. She looked at it blankly for a minute, as if unsure of his intention. His gaze remained steady. Slowly, she placed her hand on his elbow. Holmes cleared his throat and led her carefully across the scarred street. They were about halfway back to 'Bellamy's Dry Goods' before either spoke.

"If it is my presence that is discouraging you from returning to London than you will be delighted to hear that I am retiring. Leaving forever. If you wish to return to him," he paused. "I will not stand in your way."

"May I ask—why are you really here, Mr. Holmes?"

His eyes narrowed.

"Don't think me impertinent. It is just...if John is not with you and you are not going to drag me to the station and throw me on a train, than why bother coming? I don't understand."

It was a fair question. He realised that. But sometimes it was the reasonable questions that one had the hardest time finding reasonable answers to. "I think," he began and then stopped. Sometimes he wished that his bones were rotting at the bottom of the Reichenbach Falls. Sometimes he wished that he had never mentioned to Michael Stamford that he would be a hard fellow to find a flatmate for. "I think I came to assuage my guilt."

It was as hard a sentence as he had ever uttered. He did not like to admit weakness, particularly of an illogical nature. But ironically it was the logical thing to do.

"Do you love John?"

He could feel his spine harden to ice. "Do you?"

"John is...a good man."

"I was not aware that fact was under dispute."

"It is not. I think him...the kind of man a woman is lucky to marry. I thought so when he asked me. I still think it so. But"—

"But...you do not love him." He said this quite matter-of-factly. Coldly. The way the air had turned, burrowing into every bit of bare skin.

"No. But I respect him. He was very good to me." Her hand moved ever so slightly on his elbow. Holmes forced himself still. "You needn't feel guilty, Mr. Holmes," she continued, her voice uncharacteristically softened. "There is only one person to blame for my actions. I thought I could play the rôle of wife and mother. I thought I could garner favourable reviews for it." She laughed sadly. "I should have known I was fooling myself. I am sorry for John. And I am very sorry for my little girl. But I must do this. I _must_ be free. I am sure that you—a man—cannot understand how it is for a woman. To feel as though she should not aspire to anything but a man's wife or a child's mother. To never have a life of her own."

Holmes considered this. He did not understand, she was correct. But that was only because he _chose _not to. He still thought that women who did not do their duty to their children were among the top of his list of blackguards.

But he could understand the feeling of being a prisoner. And risking everything—honour, reputation, perhaps life—to be free.

"Sometimes we are forced to make difficult decisions. Sometimes we have to choose what we need from life, rather than what others need from us." He paused. "In my line of work I see it all too often. But—I don't always consider it a crime."

Julia's expression changed. Her mouth dropped, her eyes shifted away from her escort. Her entire demeanour took on something of the overly theatrical Cousin Maribel character she had spent the better part of the night portraying. Somehow, though, Holmes thought he may have been seeing the true woman for the first time. Not the actress. "Thank you for saying so," she whispered.

The detective knew he could never like Julia Hudson. Mary Morstan he could appreciate as an appropriate wife for Watson. She had been what a wife and mother should be. But this lady reminded him of his own mother. The self-serving, if not the cruelty. But he could appreciate that she hadn't betrayed John Sherlock to his father. That she hadn't attempted to blackmail him, hadn't gone to Scotland Yard or to some unscrupulous journalist.

Because he realised that on some level, she was disgusted. Dismayed. Much like Watson's sister. Just like his own mother would be.

But she had given them the gift of silence. And he thought that gift should be re-paid.

They had reached the flat again. The lights had all been extinguished, as if Mrs. McKay and her family had gone asleep. Holmes highly doubted that was the case. _The bird of dawning singeth all night long_2_, _he thought. He released Miss Hudson's arm from his own before focussing his aging, but still masterful gray eyes into her youthful blue ones. "I will not tell Watson where you are."

"Would he come after me if you did?"

"Perhaps," he lied.

Julia nodded. "Might I ask a second favour of you?"

"You may."

"Wait a moment." Silently as a cat, she dashed through the shadows and into the building. Holmes watched, though he could see nothing but the growing chill of midnight. _'Tis bitter cold, and I am sick at heart_3_. _The smile that flashed across his colourless lips was so rapid that it was gone before he realised it had appeared.

When Julia appeared, Holmes could clearly see that her eyes were puffy but he made no mention of it. She wordlessly handed him a letter. The name of her daughter was written on it, in a shaky hand. Holmes tucked it into his waistcoat.

"You will judge when she is ready to read that."

_She may never be ready. _He would not tell her that, however. "Perhaps Watson is a better candidate," said he.

She shook her head. "It must be you. It must be someone impartial. Whatever else you may be," She hesitated. "You are a complicated man. But the world is still a better place for your presence. I believe this. Even knowing what I do."

He realised that he should say thank-you. His mouth opened to do so. But the words would not come out. So instead, he turned up the collar of his frock coat against the night air and tipped his brim. "Good-night, Miss Hudson."

She nodded. "Good-bye, Mr. Holmes."

-X-

He felt the need for exercise. Despite the plummeting temperature, he walked most of the way into Dumfries. A cab caught up to him a mile from the station, and he engaged it more from habit than need. The burn in his legs and the hammering in his chest that would have been damaging to most was relaxing to him. He lit a cigarette and tried to ignore the pounding of the poorly padded seats.

He had missed the last train to London and would have to wait until morning. That was fine with him. He bought a ticket and went in the waiting room. A dying fire provided just enough heat to make the room slightly warmer than outside, he could no longer see his breath at least. Holmes took the chair nearest to the flames and closed his eyes:

Just as he'd been arriving in Dumfries early that morning, he'd observed a peddler wandering around outside the station. He noticed everyone, but this one elderly man imprinted in his mind. He allowed his brain to make notes. His stomach told him he had cirrhosis of the liver, his mouth told him he probably had a few months to live. He was Scotch but had lived abroad for many years—Australia. But not a convict. He had served in the military. The New Zealand Wars, probably. But his collar told him he had been learned—he had served one of the local Universities. An assistant. He had been married. She had died. He still wore his ring, but it was tarnished. It was the only thing of value he owned. Now he was a drunkard. An old man dying on the streets.

He was peddling books.

He looked so much like a costume he had once donned that Holmes flinched.

"G'day, sir," the old man's garbled voice said when he approached him. "You look like a man who would appreciate a bargain."

"Well, who does not?" Holmes smiled. "I would be a fool to pass up a bargain."

"And you are not a fool, kind sir. I have an eye for such things. You have a very fine occipital lobe. Now, many men praise the frontal, say that it is our development in that reason that separates us from our ape cousins, but I have always been partial to the occipital myself."

"I see," said Holmes.

"Precisely, sir. And no doubt you see very well, indeed4." The old man gave a phlegmy laugh. "No doubt you dream as well. We are the stuff as dreams are made of, as the Bard says."

" 'Dreams are made _on, _actually. _The Tempest. _I have always preferred the Prince of Denmark myself."

"Aye? And what did he have to say on dreams?"

"Well much, if memory serves."

"I do believe that he mentioned having bad dreams, Prince Hamlet. The Germans are making that particular subject something of a vogue I hear. I have a copy here somewhere, it is unfortunately not in our tongue yet, young man.5"

Holmes knew his deduction of the old man having been an academic was correct. Very few book peddlers read German, the language of doctors. He smiled. Perhaps he should buy a copy of something for Watson, as a Christmas gift.

But the old Scotch-Aussie was digging in one of his piles and pulled out a small, red-leather bound edition. "Ah! I thought I had stored this away. They say it is bad luck to speak of the Scottish play, sir, but what I really consider mis-fortune is to not have at least something of our friend from Avon upon my person. How fortunate that it would be the drama you prefer."

Holmes took it in his hands, a little astonished. It was exactly the same. "I had a copy of _Hamlet_ in my youth. Bound in red leather, published by Smith and Elder. Just as this is." He opened the cover, half expecting to see his name written in faded blue ink on the title page. It was not, of course. The original had been thrown away by his mother when he was fifteen. She tried to blame it on a careless servant. He knew better. It had been the last birthday gift from his sister. Slowly, he closed it.

The old man had a dark glint in his rheumy eyes. " 'Now I am alone/ Oh, what a rogue and peasant slave am I6. '"

Holmes blinked. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few coins, dropping them in front of the peddler. He could hear the old man still muttering lines under his breath as he walked away. He carefully placed the book in his overcoat pocket. He would have liked to give it to Watson, but he could not. Perhaps a few years ago he could have. Perhaps the boy. Not now, of course, but later. The significance would be lost on him. But Holmes knew that eventually he would come to appreciate it.

December 1903

Christmas is such a soothing time for one's soul. I have memories of snow-ball fights and new sleds from my youth; a romantic fire and my wife in my lap in my adult years. My son finally out of danger in the year of his birth, my wife and I both forgoing gifts that year, so happy are we that our boy is so improved. I have memories of a missing blue stone, and one of my favourite cases with Holmes. There are memories of family, fatty geese half-eaten, my mother's short bread, my wife's mince pie, Mrs. Hudson's fabulous mulled wine. I cannot recall a single unpleasant memory on that holy day.

The year '03 was a black one in my life. I lost Julia to the stage, I was about to lose Holmes to the Sussex Downs. But it would end with hope. Perhaps a bit like the Christmas sugared plums I can still see Cook feeding my children—bittersweet.

Behind me, the fire warmed my back. A delicious rum punch, tasting heavily of orange peel and red wine, slowly dripped fire from my belly down to my toes. Despite the snow roaring across my chimney, the weather nary caused a twinge in my old wounds.

The candles of our small tree flickered against the wall; they created shadows on the eager faces of my children, both sitting on the carpet with tinsel covered boxes at their knees.

I am taken back to another Christmas nine years earlier. Holmes, Josh and I had sat in a lonely room in Switzerland, the Hellish roar of the Reichenbach audible from our window. Or at least I remembered it as such. The innocence of that atmosphere was a temporary haven to the inferno we would soon find ourselves burning in.

We three were together once again. My son, now a young man, Holmes and I were all thrust through another decade and into a new century. We had not emerged unscathed. But for that one day, we were not thinking of the obstacles life has laid before us. The great detective was more relaxed than I have seen him in years. He sat across from me in an identical chair, legs crossed, his smoking jacket crumpled and one of the very fine Cubans he had just unwrapped hanging from his mouth. Puffing merrily, he was laughing at my son, holding up something shiny made of metal.

"Roller skates!" I ejaculate. "What on Earth?" I had imagined the large box with the silver ribbon to contain some obscure book—he had received some tome with a name I daren't even try to pronounce for his birthday. It being too big for his trunk he had left it here. I thought about using it as a paperweight. Or perhaps a cure for those nights when sleep eluded me.

"Well and why not roller skates?" Holmes was saying. "You know what they say happened to poor Jack when he got no play."

"I never realised _you _did, though."

Holmes had a slight twinkle in those steel gray eyes. He puffed a ring of smoke in my direction.

"They're first rate, Uncle!" Josh immediately began trying to fasten them to his boots. "May I try them, Papa?"

"What, in the house?"

But there was something in his voice—something of the child I so rarely saw. He had an affectation of near boredom as a habit and I would have given all that I had to see my son be able to enjoy childhood. And because I knew that it was my fault he was not—my fault and Holmes—that he felt this tremendous weight to conform to a mould that had been set in marble for him at such a tender age, I could not deny him on Christmas.

"Try not to break anything." I begged.

He whooped and rushed to his feet, only to have the contraptions clamped to them knock him on his rear. His sister had been watching him with large eyes, ripping handfuls of shiny paper and throwing them into the air. Josh giggled and grabbed her, skittering across the highly polished floor. Soon the pair of them were clobbering in the hall, Lily's shrill infantine voice screaming in excitement, her brother crashing every third or fourth glide. _So much for the sportsman, _I thought, chuckling to myself.

"After all, Watson," Holmes said as he reached for an ashtray. "He should be a child while he still can."

I raised my eyebrows. "My dear fellow, are you quite alright?"

The mantle clock struck the hour just then, seven metallic 'tings' echoing behind us. My friend pulled out his watch, gave a slight grunt of surprise as he glanced at it. His fingers clicked the fob closed and I could just make out the inscription on its carefully polished silver surface.

"I feel I have laid too many adult pressures on your son. It is a decision I now regret, to not encourage him to enjoy these years more. He will not get them back."

_Your son. _I had never heard him refer to Josh thusly. It was always 'my godson' or simply 'the boy.' Those times he was in a particularly introspective mood, he may even be called 'our boy.' It seemed as though he no longer wanted to take responsibility for him. "You were doing what was necessary to prepare him for his future career. I don't fault you."

"Have I?" He said innocently. "Well. Perhaps."

I blinked a few times. There was something in his inflection that made me think he nearly wanted to say 'perhaps not.' Turning to him, I opened my mouth to question him, but was silenced by a massive crash that rivalled the eruption of Vesuvius. A quiet swear followed.

"Alright, what's all this then? Are you bringing the house down on us?"

The baby came crawling in, all smiles and laughter, her little white gown ripped at the bodice and her wee bonnet and a ribbon from some package trailing after her. John Sherlock followed, looking something like a drunkard with arms askew and legs splayed.

"Balance on the balls of your feet," said Holmes, ever full of helpful suggestions.

"What sort of disaster are you inflicting on my entry way? I say it's lucky for you the maid is on holiday."

"Aw, nothing...just Martie knocked that end table over. I've set it right." He dove to his knees next to the baby and began tickling her, distracting her as if she could blurt out the truth to me.

I laughed. "And what will you do when Lily is old enough to defend herself?"

"Papa doesn't call my sister proper, Uncle," he said, ignoring my question. "She prefers to be called 'Martie' but he calls her 'Lily.' I think lilies are better flowers than names."

" 'Martie' for a girl?" I shook my head. "It sounds like the name of a person quite familiar with Dorset Street.7 If it's all the same to you, I would prefer my daughter to grow up to be a lady."

"Like..." the boy's eyes shifted to the left.

Whatever comment he was going to make was instantly stifled by a furious shake of Holmes's head. I glanced over, seeing my small writing desk covered with bills and unanswered correspondence. Yesterdays _Times _and _Daily Sketch_. A few old Medical Journals. But on top of the mess was a framed photograph. The very same left behind in my wife's room just two months previous.

I had neither heard nor seen anything of Julia in that time, and in truth no longer expected to. Holmes had given me her destination. What she was most likely doing to earn her way and how she had financed her escape. The real question—why—remained unanswered. If I had asked, he would have brought her back to me, bound and gagged if necessary. Or I could have charged across his Majesty's land and dragged her back myself like some enraged primate. Occasionally, I waffled between both options.

But as I sat in my library of a night, a whisky in one hand and pen in the other, I could see my bonnie lass playing on the rug before the fire. _She _deserved her mother. Did I deserve my wife? Well. Perhaps, given what had happened, we each deserved each other.

Of course, as you are no doubt aware, dear reader, that not only do we not always get what we need, we often do not even get what we deserve.

Holmes had risen to his feet. "Now, now, chaps, that will not do upon Christmas Day." He made his way over to a bowl of fruit placed on my sideboard and helped himself to an apple. Wiping it on his waistcoat, he added, "Especially in the presence of a lady." And then leaving me nearly stupefied, he picked the baby up, settled her onto his lap and munched on the fruit.

I stared at the unlikely pair of them for some seconds, eyebrows raised, completely surprised. Up until that moment, he had ignored Baby and she him. When Josh was about, she rarely paid anyone else any mind. Never had I seen a child so enraptured of an elder sibling. But unlike her brother at that age, she was not the least bit bashful. She didn't cry. She gazed at Holmes with the same wide-eyed awe that evidently ran in the Watson blood line.

I had rung my old friend last week knowing that he was leaving shortly—"I will not see the new year at Baker Street"—was how he had put it. I invited him to pass the holiday with me. The truth of it was, I myself had spent the last two months in a fog.

Once I had dropped in on him. It was some weeks after Julia's departure, and I was desperate that he may have something, anything, that I could assist him with. Happily, I was rewarded and spent several days at his side as he cleared up the startling business of Professor Presbury.

It was to be his last case in London.

He did not ask me about recent events and I did not offer details. Once he had told me that work is the best antidote to sorrow and indeed he was quite correct. Between the thrill of that last adventure, my practise and my daughter, my plate was kept quite full. But as the Christmas season approached, and I refused one invitation after another addressed to 'Dr and Mrs Watson,' I felt a melancholy streak resurface. The weather turned particularly bitter as I recall that year, and my patients seemed to go into hibernation, not wanting to venture into the elements and spend funds earmarked for the holiday.

I began to ache with loneliness. I couldn't bear that I would never see Holmes in London again, for I knew that once gone, he was unlikely to return.

"Well, I intend to catch an early train on Boxing Day," he said, his voice sounding uncertain on the telephone. "Perhaps you will not want your holiday so interrupted."

"My dear fellow! I don't mind in the least! And you really must not be alone on Christmas." Though I think I intended _I _did not want to be alone for Christmas.

He paused. "Given what has recently occurred, are you certain you do not want to be alone with your family?"

I smiled genuinely for the first time in days. "Holmes...when will you learn that you _are _family?"

When he spoke again, his normally authoritative voice had softened noticeably. "I will be there. Thank you."

-X-

The baby was soon asleep on my friend's lap and I put her to bed, having given Nurse a few days off to visit her family. When I returned, Holmes had piled the fire so that the library glowed like Shadrach's furnace and he and Josh were furiously combating in Crambo. Smiling at their vigour, I poured myself some of the fantastic single malt from the bottle Holmes had presented to me. Crambo gave way to Similes, then to Dictionary, then to stories that further illustrated their brilliance.

Resting in my armchair, I acted the part of the spectator. I was there to savour their small verbal victories, consoling my son when his mentor came up with a word he could not rhyme, match or guess, and occasionally referee a dispute.

The wind continued to howl down my chimney. Such a bone-chilling noise could only rival in my mind the moors of Dartmoor and the memories of giant hounds trained to rip out a man's throat. But my heart was light. Joyous even. It may have been temporary, but at last I had my family complete once again.

-X-

Around midnight, my son fell asleep on the sofa, the roller skates still strapped to his boots. My friend and I left him there, covered with an old blanket. We did not speak. Indeed, for much of the day we had not spoken directly to one another, but rather to our through the children. This was not particularly odd. Children have a way of directing all the energy and attention in a room to themselves. But I sensed in the way that Holmes was fingering the rim of his glass, folding, stretching and re-folding his legs and cocking his head in my direction that there was something he wished to say. I knew what it was. But I wanted to enjoy a few more minutes of the perfect peace I felt before shattering it. But at last, taking a long swig of whisky, I asked him:

"When did you see her?"

In my reluctance to speak on the subject of Julia, it hadn't even occurred to me that the question may surprise him. So rare was my opportunity to do so, I wish now that I could have delighted in the moment a bit more.

He choked on his drink. Eyebrows thrust in the air, I took him completely. Probably for the first and only time.

"However did you know?"

I had to smile. "Why, you know your methods, Holmes. Deduce."

We exploded in laughter, guiltily, trying to buffer the sound with our hands so as to not awaken the boy. He was thankfully a heavy sleeper and the noise did little but cause him to grunt and subside.

I looked at my friend. When was the last time we had laughed like that? Quite awhile. I should think it was long overdue. All the pressures and expectations we had levelled on one another over the last decade seemed to melt away in that moment. My fears for my children, the worry that I had let down both Julia and Holmes, the anger at myself, my inability to fix our lives melted away. Laughter can have quite the cathartic effect it seemed.

Briefly, he explained to me in a low voice how he had traced her. He spoke as if he were afraid of being overheard. For Holmes, it had been all too simple. But I would have had a deuced time of it, even knowing as I did that she had brought a ticket for Dumfries.

What he had not said, however, was _why _he had gone there.

I decided not to ask.

"She thought herself a poor wife and mother. And she was dissatisfied with not being able to parade about on stage, or some such. Who really understands the motivations of women? They can be so inscrutable." He glanced at me. "The point, though, is that you have nothing to feel guilty about. She left of her own accord."

My spine seemed to melt into the back of the chair. A breath that had been trapped in my lungs for the past two months exited.

For I believed him. Whole-heartedly.

I would not have been actor enough to pull off such a lie. But Julia Hudson was a fine creature of the stage and I always thought Holmes could have easily manufactured a career as another Sir Henry Irving.8

"What will you do in Sussex?" I asked him after a long, drowsy pause.

"Well. I hope to devote some time to writing. I would like to pen the definitive text on the art of deduction. Alas, I fear I may prove unequal to the task." His eyes were merry as they met mine. "James Boswell you may well be, doctor, but time will tell if there is anything of Johnson in me."

I chuckled, sipping my whisky.

"Of course, mostly I am hoping to devote my time to bee-keeping."

"_Bee-keeping_?" I would not have been more surprised if he had said he was interested in taking up tribal dancing or sock darning. "Why the devil _bee-keeping_?"

He gave a non-committal shrug. "Why not? Bees are a fascinating creature. Perfect order, perfect structure. I find that appealing. Perhaps something to aspire to."

"It seems an odd sort of hobby for you. Or perhaps it does not. But a full-time occupation? I cannot imagine you not involving yourself in crime somehow. Your brain rebels at stagnation as you have told me before."

"I have told you my reasons for retiring."

"You have told me. I do not know that I accept them."

He snorted. "Do you think I have so little control of myself that I will immediately plunge back into a vial of cocaine? Come now, doctor."

I gripped the armrest of my chair and leaned my head against the cushion, studying the dancing shadows the fire cast of us on the ceiling. We both moved, flickered in shades of grey. We both refused to commit to one single shape. _We are more alike than unlike._

"I worry about your being alone. That is all." I did not remove my sights from the softly glowing lights.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my friend blink. His lips flattened into a long line. "I wish it did not have to be."

_Did it have to be?_

The whisky settled like a glowing ember into my mind. "This really is a good single malt, Holmes."

"Scotland is the only place for whisky. As well you know."

"Yes, indeed."

"I will enjoy the Cubans immensely. It is always nice to know that one will be able to fill a hole in one's coal scuttle. I have already engaged a local woman to look after me, by the way. So you needn't worry about my becoming a total recluse. She reminds me of Mrs Hudson," He chuckled. "I dare say she may have been the only one in Christendom who would have put up with my strong tobacco and er, untidy habits."

I was picturing the chalky white cliffs. The green hills, the sand-swept beaches. A little cottage—stone with dark brick inlays. A tin roof. I could hear the rain hammering against it. There would be a small wood just beyond, a thick grove of elms, I should think. An area to the south hoed for gardening. I had grown vegetables (potatoes mostly) myself as a lad. Perhaps even a stable for a horse.

Inside, a large stone fireplace. Two desks, or even davenports for us to write at. A bookcase full of the novels and journals I never had time for. Plenty of room for Holmes's crime library and indexes. I could live off of the proceeds of my scribblings—the _Strand _was practically on its knees for more stories. Holmes could tend his bees, write his tome.

We would be away from London, away from the suspicions wrought in that city that were hopefully gaining the same well-earned rest as Mr. Wilde had been for the last three years.

Finally, I could withhold the words no longer. They burst from me like the bullet that grazed my subscapular artery more than twenty years previous. "I could come with you."

He was looking straight ahead. The implications of my words hung in the air, seemingly for an eternity. So much time passed that I thought he may not respond at all. May choose to ignore me. Slowly, he brought his whisky to his lips and drank. When he spoke, the word was directed at his glass.

"No."

It was the answer I was expecting. I nodded. "I understand."

"Do you?"

He turned to me. "Did you know that the societal structure of the bee is among the most complex of any animal? You probably did. It is well established in everything from Aristotle to Shakespeare. But what many people do not realise is just how intricate their interactions can be. They do not vocalise of course, but they have other ways of expressing themselves to one another. Through scents and signs that only individuals in their own hive can interpret. And they are very adept at reading these subtle codes. But when they have problems—say a disease or a decrease in food—they are vigilant about protecting the colony. About the greater good. All of the drones, for example, are turned out as the weather grows cold in order to protect resources. They are left to die. But the new generation is stronger for it. And that is what is important..."

It was an odd speech. I've known him to monologue on a subject when he was of a mind—usually on some topic related to his profession. But occasionally he was want to show off some esoteric knowledge that was of interest to few—the Polyphonic Motets of Lassus is the first one that comes to mind.

That is not to say that I didn't find the talk intriguing. Indeed, Holmes's voice and affect alone had the ability to make me a captive audience. But this speech had a distinct air of idiom. And though occasionally I felt the idiot when around this man, I could see through his dodge.

"I've never thought of, er, _bees_ that way before." Smiling, I brought the glass to my mouth. Whisky has a very distinct smell. Woody, smoky, a warm smell. It filled my nose and mind. I recalled it as the smell of my father, even when he was sober. My brother as well. It was the smell of many a cold evening at Baker Street, discussing a case. It was my heritage, though I had avoided making it my future.

"Perhaps it is time to resurrect me from the dead," said he. "For your lurid overly-romantic writings, I mean."

"I had thought to do so. With your permission."

Josh snored, his fat fingers clutching at the blanket as he rolled over. I watched as my friend's gaze fell on him. "It will make no difference to me if you continue writing once I am in Sussex. But your children will have no opportunities outside of London. And it will be," he paused.

"I know, Holmes."

"The problems that occurred six years ago will continue."

They, too, could be resurrected from the dead. Though these _problems _as he called them had never properly been laid to rest. Those issues of trust. My doubts as to Holmes's past. The fears of our reputations, honour, even lives ruined.

But he was right. Mainly it was my son. Now my children. If I chose to destroy myself that was one thing. It was my choice to make. But a man should put his family above his own needs. And it was damn time that I did so. Even if it cost me my own happiness.

"Think you'll make that train tomorrow?" I asked.

He thought about it for a few seconds. "Another day or so would not interrupt my plans."

"Good." I stretched out my legs, the fire feeling quite delicious. I was tired, but too comfortable to retire. "Merry Christmas, Holmes."

Holmes yawned lazily. "It was indeed, my dear fellow. It was indeed."

-X-

On the second of January, Holmes and I took a cab to Victoria. Outside his carriage, he took my hand tightly and shook it. I wanted to say something. I think he wanted me to tell him not to go. But I didn't. And he would have gone anyway.

"Will you have the boy up this summer?" I asked.

"Of course." He paused. "His father should come with him."

Yes. He should. "I will try," I said. He nodded. "Good-bye, Holmes."

He didn't reply. Simply turned and stepped onto the train, swinging his valise through the opening. His hard gaze remained on me. The steel-colour of his eyes always seemed more appropriate when on one of the marvels of our great empire.

I watched until the smoke enveloped him and I could no longer see. Then I turned and walked out into the new year.

Ten more would pass before I would see him again.

-X-

_The following is added by John S. (Josh) Watson at a later date_

Sherlock Holmes and his godson sat in the Blue Owl pub across from each other. The boy sat on the back of the chair, feet planted firmly on the seat. He possessed a general disregard for propriety that only a young male or a brilliant eccentric can get away with. A bottle of lemonade sat in front of him, dripping on to the sticky table. But his attention was clearly focused on the dirty windows of the establishment. Or rather, what was directly outside of them. His pale eyebrows formed a heavy crease on his forehead, his lips pursed into non-existence.

"How do you know you can see anything from here? You were outside when it happened."

The man flashed him a quick smile, and took a sip of his pint. To his disgust, it had gone warm. "If all the world is a stage, each man must choose his part," said he, rather cryptically. "Would you prefer to be cast as myself, foolhardy and emotional, the catalyst of the crime? Or would you rather step into the dispassionate shoes of perpetrator?"

Thinking, he took a long draught of his beverage. The day was burning hot and his lips were sticky. His nose was filled with the stink of unwashed men and pickled eggs. Ale. Old cheese. His vision was going a bit spotty from glaring out of the window for the last quarter hour. He felt alive. He felt glorious. "Let's go outside," he finally decided, not committing himself to either of his Uncle's scenarios.

The sun was punishing, but the boy squinted happily at the rusted tin roofs. The order that they had appeared nearly 40 years ago was carved into his mind. He knew that order was important. But his Uncle wanted him to play act. _One must step into the shoes of the criminal and then correct for the human equation._

He knew what that meant. Most people were thick.

But he was not and was about to prove it. His Uncle had presented him with this problem the end of the previous summer. He had been about ten, the same age as Sherlock Holmes when he lived it. The man had waited until he was stepping onto the train to head back to school (probably so there would be no time for questions) to hand him a sheaf of paper, coroner's notes, a geography of Horseshoe Alley and some of his own scribblings. "Study this when you have the time," he had said. "Next summer, we will put your skills to the test."

He had studied. He had _memorised. _At night, when the other lads fought, kicked, laughed and generally acted beastly toward one another, he lay on his hard cot and worked out the geometry of ballistics on his pillow with his finger.

They were standing at the exact spot. Young Josh tried to imagine his Godfather at his age, but he could not. It seemed impossible to picture anything but tall, peering, twitchy.

"The sign is no longer here," said the boy. "The one for Wimbeley's Dry Goods."

The detective raised an eyebrow. A sign to continue.

"The gunman was close enough to you to spray gunpowder upon your face. This is where you stood, so he did as well. The bullet exited the gun, ending up in your...um, the victim's neck. Geometrically speaking, unless it defied the laws of gravity, it would have been impossible to hit her at that angle from here. Unless it came into contact with something and ricocheted."

Sherlock Holmes's mouth twitched upward.

He had never been particularly fond of mathematics. He preferred the hands-on minutia of a laboratory or the fantastical imaginings of a good book. But there was something to appreciate in the exactness of angles. "The sign was the interference. The bullet travelled in a straight line, hit the edge of the metal sign and deflected into her body." He paused. He had been rehearsing this speech for some little time, and he was proud of it. But there was a twinge in his chest even as he spoke. He tried to imagine the person he loved the most exploding in front of him. The lemonade in his belly sloshed around a bit.

A year ago, he would have been rewarded with a hand pounding on his shoulder or his hair tousled. But he was older now and the prizes had to be fought for.

"So we know how it happened," his mentor said. "That does us very little good unless we have a suspect, gun in hand. I am generally engaged to find out the how, but to the victims, it is usually the _why _that has the greater impact."

The boy stood silent for several minutes. The sweat dripped into his eyes. There was a black shape in front of the Blue Owl's dirty windows and he was trying desperately to mould it into something human.

His Uncle folded his hands behind his back. "I expect too much from you."

"No." The boy said certainly. Pleadingly.

His hand brushed the boy's collar. "Let us walk this way." His voice immediately lost its stern edge. "I didn't mean to suggest you'd failed. Quite the contrary."

The sun at their backs, the two shuffled slowly north along the broken cobblestones of Horseshoe Alley. They walked leisurely, as if on a guided tour. The streets were not as crowded as they once had been, in this new age of promise and prosperity. Edward preferred to force both impoverished and everyman together rather than draw the boundary lines his mother represented. "In a hundred years, poverty will be a thing of the past," Sherlock Holmes had once said to the boy. He had paused. "What an unfortunate situation for the aristocracy when their noble blood no longer means anything."

It was the only instance in his mind the boy could recall his Uncle remarking on politics. He was usually completely indifferent. "A Tory or a Liberal's all the same to him," his father had said to him quite recently when he had begun to show an interest in politics. "They all commit crimes."

Still, he couldn't be certain that the looks the fruit peddlers and dirt-covered labourers gave him as they passed were because they recognised Sherlock Holmes from the Strand magazine or because their cleanliness, clothing and comportment marked them as interlopers.

They walked past where the sign had hung, past the spot where the detective's young life had diverged, and past Horseshoe Alley altogether. A stained sign on some indeterminate, crumbling building proclaimed them to be on Buck's Row. The man started humming "Rule, Britannia!" under his breath, keeping time with his stick, nodding to anyone they happened to pass. Josh blinked, his mind humming. His Godfather liked to provide him with clues.

"Did you know that there were 26 pawn shops on Buck's Row and Whitechapel Alley in 1865? Second only to Tottenham Court."

Josh frowned, not sure how to process this. He walked over to an abandoned store, the glass busted out and thin, dilapidated boards nailed to some of the empty areas. He studied his reflection as best he could see it. The likeness was disturbing. His pale skin was black, his eyes empty holes. He might have had the Black Death. With the cuff of his shirt, he wiped a section clean and his mother's face returned to him. He had a good memory—he could still remember all of his lines from _Julius Caesar, _and that was more than a year ago. But he did not have the eidetic memory of Sherlock Holmes. He had to work at remembering the type of bullet and the black...the black powder.

"I read a book about guns," he said, turning. "I thought that it may help. In your notes, you said that your cheek was stained with powder. Some types of guns spray more powder than others. I'm trying to remember the kinds"—

"One of the worst is the Adams revolver. A military revolver issued mainly during the '50's."

"During the Crimea!" Josh practically shouted. He jumped off the curb and slapped the man's arm. "I read about that. The gun had no powder shield. That's why you were whistling _Rule Br..._wait, I still don't understand the pawn shop. But it's a soldier, right? That's who would have such a gun. And then"—

"Calm down, lad," Sherlock Holmes laughed heatedly. "You're losing yourself. Keep your thoughts in order."

But he could tell the way the gray in his eyes turned from steel to silver that he was right. They always betrayed his pride, even when the rest of his body was rigid and stern. Josh smiled to himself. Like all English lads, he had at least a passing interest in all matters military. Although he no longer played with toy soldiers, he felt a patriotic duty to keep them lined up and dusted atop his wardrobe at home. He had enjoyed reading of the careers of Chinese Gordon and the Duke of Wellington, among others. He liked for his father to tell him stories of his time in the army. Perhaps because of that, he had an unchangeable mindset when it came to perceptions of military men. And drunken officers who fell so low as to shoot innocent women did not figure in.

He looked at his Uncle. "I wouldn't have thought a soldier could be such a villain."

"Yes." Holmes's voice was firm again. "And if you have fixed perceptions of people, you will never see beyond your nose."

Such a mild scolding would have bothered him a few years ago, but after being thrashed and chased by large boys for the last four years, one learned adaptability. The pawn shop. That had been a clue. "If a soldier had his sidearm still, that means he left the army honourably. Why would he shoot it outside a pub, in a crowd of people?"

"So says the son of John Watson."

"Does that mean the soldier..._didn't _do it?"

Holmes narrowed his eyes. "Can we draw that conclusion?"

_The pawnshop. _"A soldier would never pawn his sidearm." He paused. "I don't think." _Mustn't think of all soldiers as like Papa. _He sighed. Perhaps he was not meant to be a detective. He looked up through the waving heat at the face hidden in the shadow of a straw boater. "I don't know, Uncle," he mumbled.

The shadow seemed to smile. "It is alright to admit so."

The boy and the man continued walking along a cracked, weed-infested road. To their left, a moss-eaten gate opened onto a small churchyard. The gray letters that had once named it were no longer legible—even visible. To Josh's surprise, his Godfather tapped his arm with his stick and turned in, head bowed.

The church was no longer any colour. Perhaps once it had been painted, just as perhaps once the tombstones had been cared for. Now the only worshippers were thistles and dandelions. Only a very few looked as though they were tended to—one they passed had a bunch of white daisies tied with a piece of string leaning against it. He swallowed. It was a very poor gesture when he thought of the immaculate condition of his mother's resting place. This little grave had no name, just the words 'aged 4, 1858.' He quickly walked on.

Sherlock Holmes seemed to know where he was going, deftly weeding his way through row after row of crumbling stone, moving steadily farther and farther from the remains of the little building. When he stopped, it was suddenly, unexpectedly. The boy, who had a hard enough time walking on flat ground, tripped on a rock, landing under a large shade oak. "Ow," he said, rubbing his knee. But he was used to his lack of coordination and immediately became far more interested in the solitary grave in front of his face. It was an old limestone cross. There was a carving, but he could not make it out. It might have been a date. But maybe it just said RIP.

"What is it? I mean, whose is it?"

His uncle was settling himself onto the piles of dead leaves next to him. The sun now blocked, both took a moment to enjoy the shade on their burnt skins. The smell of manure and filth was replaced by dirt and stone—a calming, natural smell. Josh closed his eyes. He would have liked to dig a hole in the leaves and rest forever.

"You've done very well. As well as I could have hoped. I do not give praise easily and never when it is unearned, but I mean what I say. I am proud."

His ears burned. He had never said that he was proud of him before. But it was embarrassing to be embarrassed. He picked up a crispy brown leaf and reduced it to dust in his hand.

Sherlock Holmes pointed a long finger toward the grave.

"This is the wife of the soldier who killed my sister. Names really mean nothing so I will not bother. It is the story that is everything and six days of non-stop questioning, pestering and reasoning when I was fifteen years old led me to a small room on Buck's Row where this woman lay dying. A victim of years of poverty. She had given birth to six children and buried all of them, mostly due to circumstances preventable by food, clean water and warm clothing. Her husband was once a decorated veteran of the Crimea, and he destroyed his family and his demons in a bottle. She watched her children's bodies and her hopes shrink. Taking the only thing of worth she could find, this lady and an Adams made 44 calibre tried to go to one of the many pawn shops near her. Unfortunately, she had to pass what used to be the Cock and Crow, what is now the Blue Owl, on the way. She was seen. A confrontation ensued—mere yards away from another that I myself was embroiled in—and in the process of a husband accosting his wife's treachery, a weapon was discharged. Neither realised that it had a bullet in the chamber. You correctly deduced the path of the bullet. The damage it inflicted was permanent."

John Sherlock looked at the leaf crumbs on his hand. His fingers were short and plump. He frowned at them. He would have liked to have said something. Something helpful. But he was already too old to think of anything.

"The soldier then abandoned his family, fled for fear of a reprisal that probably would never have come," the man continued. "Justice was not to be satisfied. I looked in the dead eyes of that unfortunate woman and I knew that to be true." He turned to the boy. "If you are to follow in my dubious footsteps, it will be the same for you. You will have your faith smashed, your belief in strongly held convictions shaken. You will have to see things you wished did not exist, _do _things that will haunt your sleep. Just having the ability to reason and deduce is not enough, my dear John Sherlock."

He shuddered as a warm breeze cackled through the few solitary leaves that remained on the branches. An image of his Godfather shooting a man—of a head exploding—flashed through his mind. Sometimes he saw that in the dark. Sometimes he saw the dispassionate look on the man's face as he had done it. At school, he had been called "Mouse." Partly because of his short statute, and partly because he once refused to join in on a group of boys throwing their boots at a mouse in the dorm. He'd never asked, but he was willing to bet that his Uncle's nickname at school had been better than Mouse.

"I'm not fifteen yet," he said. "Perhaps I'll be more prepared by then."

Holmes looked at him curiously. "I mean to tell you the absolute truth. I do not mean to discourage you. But I had rather you be completely prepared."

Josh rested his head on his knees. The older he got, the more seriously he was treated. When he had been small, he thought he would have preferred it that way. There was nothing so frustrating as everyone treating you as if you are some brilliant, adorable lap dog. But now he rather missed his father reading to him, his Uncle bouncing him on his knee. He had been begging to be treated like an equal for so long that now he wished he _could_ be just Mouse for awhile. His eyes met Sherlock Holmes's. "But I am constant as the Northern Star, of whose true fixed and resting quality, there is no fellow in the firmament."9

The man stared at him for some time. "If you are Caesar, then you must realise how you ended up."

"Yes. But I could never be stabbed to death by my friends, sir. I only have one, and he's even shorter than I am."

Sherlock Holmes laughed and then almost immediately grew serious. "Well. Sometimes one is enough. What say you to a trip to the British Museum? I wager it will get us out of this swelter, if nothing else, and I did want to see that new Egyptology collection before I leave the city."

The boy jumped to his feet. "Oh, yes, please, Uncle!"

As he eagerly led his Uncle out of the dilapidated little cemetery, a realisation hit John Sherlock. He had been so anxious about proving his worth, displaying his intelligence to interrupt facts and his ability to become a detective, it suddenly occurred to him that the man had been trying to prove something to him as well. And it was not that he could not follow in his footsteps. It was that he _should _not.

-X-

1 Scottish for peep show. Can be any exhibition or menagerie but especially freak shows.

2 Hamlet I.i

3 Also I.i

4 A really bad joke. The visual cortex is located in the occipital lobe.

5 Freud's _The Interpretation of Dreams _came out in 1899, but would be another decade before an English version was released.

6 II. ii

7 Dorset Street was once called 'the worst street in London' and famous for whores and doss houses. Also the street of Mary Jane Kelly's murder by Jack the Ripper.

8 Probably the most famous actor in the Victorian era—the first to be awarded a knighthood.

9 From Julius Caesar III.i.


End file.
